


Perfect Day

by Devolucao



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: BDSM, Cancer, Consensual Violence, Dubious Consent, Foe Yay, M/M, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-24
Updated: 2011-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-15 22:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devolucao/pseuds/Devolucao
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Izaya didn't love him--he didn't even like him--and that was why it worked. Why Shizuo told himself it worked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Irony

_~And behold joy and gladness, slaying oxen, and killing sheep, eating flesh, and drinking wine: let us eat and drink; for tomorrow we shall die.~_

 

There were three things Shizuo hated above all else: 1]irksome people, 2]lies, 3]excuses. He placed certain especially irksome people, Izaya being topmost among those, in an esteemed subclass, right between nosy reporters and bullies. He'd add a fourth just for miscellany, but he hated the number, so that, along with the irony of it, came in under stuff he was generally not fond of.

Like stupid adverts, bad food, waiting in queues, and delighting in cruel jokes at other people's expense. He also wasn't too fond of know-it-alls.

"Well, that's not really irony," Shinra tried explaining. "I think maybe you're thinking Schadenfreude. Irony would be like calling an ambulance, only to have it run you over."

Shizuo thought about it and sniffled into his handkerchief. "Well, if it happened to Izaya, I might laugh."

"The point isn't supposed to be humor," Shinra ticked. "Also, wash your hands when you do that. I've got clinic duty this week, so I can't afford your cold."

Shizuo briskly washed his hands and flicked the water at Shinra's smugly grinning face, and added another notch to his not-so-fond-of list. Being sick sucked. Flat out. And always one to do things in a big way, Shizuo did not just catch cold, he caught cold with a vengeance. Probably because his defenses were overactive, or something, a simple virus became def-con one, and all the troops got called in en mass. Fevers, coughing, bloody noses, sneezes that sent his head through walls, and a trail of snotty destruction wherever he went.

No. Scratch being not-so-fond of colds. A cold was worthy of his hate, and worthy of the dreaded number four. He couldn't smash a cold the way he smashed idiots, so when Shizuo got sick, he tended to smash other things: like tables, windows, bathroom sinks, and pharmacy counters where they refused to prescribe him the really good drugs.

"Don't look so persecuted," Shinra sighed, waving the little blister pack of pills at Shizuo. "It doesn't become you."

"And a split lip doesn't become you," Shizuo shot back. "Give it already."

"Ah!" Shinra jerked his arm back, and really, trying to be cute was going the right way towards pissing Shizuo off. No matter that Shinra could get away with it, and had for many years. "What's the magic word?"

Schadenfreude, pleasure at his misery.

"Pissing me off," He muttered, and tried not to sound plaintive. "I knew you were twisted, but seriously? Denying treatment to a sick patient? Did you have your fingers crossed when you took that oath?"

At least Shinra had the good grace to fake insult. He tossed the packet onto the table, but paused the tea-kettle mid-pour, as if he was reconsidering whether or not Shizuo deserved it. "I think you give me too little credit. Anyway," he said, "you've had this cough for two weeks now."

"One week."

"It's bad to let things go too long. You're not Superman, you know." He finished pouring with a loud flourish, then set the kettle down. "Come to think of it, actually, when was your last check-up?"

Shizuo was incredibly un-fond of lectures, and wasn't much impressed by theatrics either, least of all Shinra's. He also never put much thought into ominous signs or portents the way some people--who would go unnamed for the sake of his sanity--did; so he'd pretend the ringing of metal on granite didn't sound suspiciously like his death knell.

"Who knows," he said. "So you wanna do this thing here?" Shizuo stood. He wasn't much for theatrics, true, but he loved that flash of warring terror and uncertainty in people's eyes when they noticed A]just how tall this fucker was, and B]holy shit, he's coming this way.

"Don't tease," Shinra shoved a mug across the table and quickly poured tea into it. "I'm just suggesting you see a doctor. Any doctor."

"Whatever. You're here, aren't you?" He yanked up his sleeve. "You want blood? Should I drop trou?" He reached for his belt and got ready to see some real theatrics. "Come on, then. But don't you look at me!"

Shinra did not, much to his disappointment, immediately bolt out and lock the door behind him. He did get plenty flustered and spill tea on himself, though. That was nice. "I just want to listen to your lungs," he burbled. "Please, put your belt back on."

"What kind of doctor are you?"

"The only kind that'll put up with you," Shinra chided, and once Shizuo 'very grudgingly' agreed to keep his pants, he fetched a stethoscope. "You forget there might be a lady present, besides."

"Who? Celty?"

"Of course, Celty. Honestly, how could you miss those soft curves? That delicate feminine carriage...."

The dainty way Celty socked Shinra in the gut when he started talking shit like that. Of course, Celty.

"I suppose it's inevitable you'll fall for her now," Shinra sighed, shoving the ice cold stethoscope up Shizuo's back. "Breathe in."

Shizuo took in a huge gulp of air, then breathed out at Shinra's prompting, muttering that he was crazy, and he didn't give a shit about anyone's gender.

"Of course you don't," Shinra said briskly, then moved around in front of him. "It's fine if you fall for me, too, but know that my heart and body are both spoken for! Deep breath, now."

Once more, ice cold stethoscope under his shirt, and big gulp of air. "You satisfied yet?" Shizuo wheezed. "It's just a cold. I told you--"

Shinra frowned sharply and slid the stethoscope to the left, lower, then back up again. "Shhh, once more. Breathe in. Now out."

He did, twice more for each side, just to humor him. Let him hear how annoyed Shizuo was getting, his heart beating double-time to match the vein at his temple. Let him poke and prod, if it would finally get him to shut up and quit with the worried looks. That bit, Shizuo wasn't sure he liked. The part where people worried about him, he was pretty sure he hated that. "Come on, don't leave me in suspense, here."

"Ah, it's probably nothing," he said cryptically, and removed the stethoscope in favor of more poking, more prodding. If his aim was to get Shizuo riled, he was doing a bang-up job so far; feeling on his left tit like a drunken salaryman at half-past desperate. No bedside manner at all. "Does it hurt when I do this?"

"No. But I bet you ask all the girls that."

"Shizuo, I'm being serious." Very serious, as he'd moved on to the right tit with equal vigor.

"I bet you tell all the girls that, too," Shizuo said. "Fabulous, aren't they?"

Shinra gave a small tic. Irritation? Bemusement? Or was that amusement? He was always getting the two mixed up. "Lift your arms a little," he muttered, and moved his poking and prodding to Shizuo's armpits.

That got a wince. "Looking for swollen glands?" Shizuo grunted. He wasn't an idiot, or at least he'd been to enough doctors to know the drill. He tilted his head back and let Shinra feel around his throat and jaw. "I've got the flu," he muttered. "They're all probably swollen."

"Of course, the symptoms fit," Shinra said far far too cavalierly.

All of it except Shizuo's swollen left tit. "You think I should get this thing looked at?" Meaning elsewhere, by a real doctor; though he was too kind to say so outright. "Jeez, it's happening again, isn't it?"

"Ah--" Shinra nervously stowed his stethoscope and waved off Shizuo's grumbling. "Probably not. I'd worry more about the bird flu, anyway. Though you'd be the first documented case in Tokyo this year, it's possible and...potentially fatal?"

"I won't kiss any more birds," Shizuo promised, hastily shoving his shirt-tails back in his trousers and tugging his vest straight. He collected his pills and his attaché, and resisted pointing out what a terrible date Shinra was. That'd just be rubbing it in. "I'll be going then."

"Shizuo, wait."

"Eh?"

"It's--probably nothing, but--"

"I'll get it checked out tomorrow," he said. "Don't worry about it."

Tomorrow came and went, and so did the next tomorrow. But there'd still be a tomorrow after that, Shizuo reasoned, and Shinra was smart enough not to bug him about it; which was more than he could say for every single wise-ass he ran into in the meantime.

"Oh, that's a nasty cough, isn't it? He should be in bed," and so on.

Schadenfreude if he ever saw it. Pleasure at Shizuo's misery. He wasn't sure what he hated more, that or the attempts at weaseling, the false sympathy. Yeah, it was a bad cough. Tuberculosis. Pretty fatal, but don't worry, he didn't think it was catching. Oh, what? Highly contagious, was it? Don't be silly. His doctor would've told him if that were true. Ah, Tom-san, you think it's contagious? Damn, he ran.

They caught the guy within a block, but as usual, he didn't have the cash on him. They almost seldom did. And this one was now claiming he'd need whatever he had to pay for antibiotics and so on, with lots of shrieking and blame and hand waving that did not impress Tom-san in the least.

"You can't threaten to infect the clients," he sighed. "Beating them is one thing, but biologic terrorism is going a shade too far."

"Sorry," Shizuo muttered, though he wasn't at all, and he'd do it again the second no-one was looking.

Tom just waved a racing form at him and said "go home."

"Am I fired?"

"No, but take a few sick days, would you? Even the manager's starting to worry."

Shizuo doubted that, but he'd let it go if Tom-san insisted.

"I'll be checking up on you," he called after Shizuo. "Take care, all right?"

Yeah, he promised. If by take care, Tom-san meant sit on a park bench and drink milk coffee, Shizuo could hack that. And so what if he had a fever? He could have it in the park as well as he could at home, only there, he wouldn't have Celty to talk to.

Wasn't he at all concerned, though? He could die if his temperature got high enough. No matter how perfectly fine he felt, or claimed he felt, his brains could fry and he'd just keel over dead. Mid-sentence, boom, dead. She'd seen it happen!

"You don't think that's kinda morbid?" He said. "It was thirty seven the last time I checked. Is that bad?"

Celty cocked her helmet quizzically and paused, before hastily tapping out: maybe for someone not as strong as you. Which was being diplomatic for his sake, but she insisted that he did feel very warm and probably should be in bed. If he had to keep asking if it was 'really that bad', then yes, it really was that bad.

Really, really!

Don't ask for a third opinion. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two-hundred dollars. In fact, do see a doctor before it gets any worse! Before, not after.

"I had the same thing last year," he said. "I didn't die then."

You didn't have a cough then, she pointed out. Far be it from her to push, but it could turn into pneumonia. Had he let Shinra check his lungs? It had been two days, better safe than sorry.

"I'm not that weak," he muttered. "How much you wanna bet I can't lift you an' your bike together?"

She didn't doubt he could, but still, shouldn't he try to take it easy?

"Hah!" Nothing Shizuo loved more than a challenge. He stood and pulled a bowing curtsy. "You think I'm afraid of making a fool of myself? Five hundred, plus gloating rights."

She considered it a moment, then shrugged and swung into the saddle.

That was the first and last thing Shizuo remembered before coming to on the ground amidst a small cluster of onlookers. He felt something cold pressed to his neck (a drink can?) and looked up to find Celty crouched over him with a chagrined 'told you so' helmet tilt.

"I got you off the ground," he murmured, sniffled, then sneezed out a splatter of blood. He saw how quickly everyone, but for Celty, scattered after that. Here was trouble, best not to get involved.

Her shoulders slumped into a sigh. You have two choices, she said, home or the hospital. Honestly, I shouldn't be indulging you....

"S'okay. Home." He was able to sit up all right, and anyway, why waste the doctors time when there was clearly something going around? It wasn't bird flu, Shinra was just being alarmist. His nose always bled like that when he sneezed, and he hadn't heard any bones break. He was fine. Moreover, he had technically lifted her and the bike, so he should at least be allowed to gloat.

Still, he clung to her like a barnacle all the way home. Had some work convincing her it was all right to leave him; the way he was rubbing his chest, she said it was clear he'd hurt something.

"It's fine," he assured her. "It's probably nothing." It was probably nothing three days ago, and would still probably be nothing the next.

Was he sure? He'd passed out. That wasn't usual for him, was it? He still felt awfully warm. Had his fever gone up? She couldn't tell, but she was sure it had!

It was fine, it was nothing, her hands were just cold. He just wanted to get some sleep already. If it worried her so much, though, if it would keep Shinra off his back, he'd go down to the clinic tomorrow. No fake.

She'd hold him to it, she said. She wasn't above using force!

"Oh? You remember I got you up off the ground," he said, smirking. "You think you could take me?"

She stood back and deliberately tugged down her sleeve. The resulting black plume hit the ceiling and spread, tendrils snaking their way down walls, into corners, and back towards the sofa where Shizuo sat gingerly rubbing his chest.

Oh, she wasn't sure, but she'd certainly try.

"A'right," he sighed, and lit a cigarette. He was sure anyone else would've pissed themselves by then; but he wasn't anyone else, and it was all he could do not to laugh. "Really. All this drama over a cold."

He left off mentioning the swelling. It had nothing to do with anything, and he wasn't about to go feeding her worry. He'd done a fine enough job of that with Shinra, who had no doubt put Celty up to this whole coercion scheme.

"Malignant hyperthermia?" He grumbled. "He told you that?"

She nodded anxiously. Apparently, Shinra mentioned something about him not having sweat glands since childhood--which wasn't at all true, or he'd have dropped dead long ago. But since nothing about Shizuo's strength made plausible sense, he guessed she'd believe anything.

Like, he was really from the planet Krypton, where the atmosphere was so much denser than on earth. "Really," he said. "On Krypton, a soda can weighs about five kilos. That's why I'm able to lift such heavy stuff. Less gravity here."

Celty cocked her helmet at that, quietly humoring him.

The clinic was quiet that day. Ominously quiet. Like the way purgatory might be. But he wasn't thinking that. He wasn't thinking about the ring of metal on granite, or the way Shinra had pleaded with his eyes, how hollow his 'told you so' would sound. He was thinking how much he hated the smell of hospitals, and how the magazines were always out of date, and how he had better things he could be doing with his sick day. Like sleeping in. Or masturbating. Or...that was pretty much it.

"It's really a pain," he sighed. "I'm still not immune to earth's viruses."

Oh? She supposed that made sense. Germs wouldn't survive a dense atmosphere such as Krypton's. Either that, or a single germ weighed as much as a BB, so it couldn't possibly get airborne...unless Shizuo sneezed. He was joking about the alien thing, right?

"That's the thing," he said, dramatically shading his eyes. "I don't actually know where I came from. My parents said they found me in a field--"

Celty sidled away, black soot curling around the edges of her helmet. I don't know you!

He sighed again, sat back, and concentrated on keeping his knees still. It wasn't nerves. He wasn't worried. He just hated hospitals. Hated, hated, hated them! The way they smelled, the way the chairs were arranged, the rows of closed curtains and the pink plastic emesis basins. He hated waiting, and wondering what it was they whispered just outside his room that made his parents faces tense and close up like that.

Ah, but that was the past. He wasn't that weak anymore.

"Sorry," he sighed, and returned to moping until his number was up.

It took them for-fucking-ever to get the blood sample. He was too tense, the phlebotomist said, or some shit, and if he didn't relax they'd have to find a vein in his ankle. That, he did not like, and when they began palpating his chest, he had to fight hard not to punch ten fingertip size holes through the exam table.

"How long have you had this?" They asked.

He wasn't sure. He muttered something cursory about having gyna--gyneca--whatever, tits in middle school, before turning beet red and clamming up. Too much information. The technician was suddenly way too into asking questions.

How old was Shizuo, again? Had he always been tall and slim? How long has he been a smoker? Would he mind getting undressed? Would he mind if a couple of med students observed?

The edge of the table creaked, and Shizuo felt something splinter. He remembered he was wearing a normal tee-shirt and jacket when he came in, versus his bartender clothes. The technician had no idea what he was dealing with, and Shizuo had to force himself to relax. "You don't need to do that," he said, simply. "Just do some scans or whatever, so I can get out of here before I hafta work."

They weren't sure all that was necessary. Shizuo was too young for 'anything worrisome like that'. The mass was soft and movable, so it was likely a cyst. He ought to just keep an eye on it, they said, and see his regular doctor if it got any bigger. Which would've been good enough for Shizuo, but he didn't have a regular doctor besides Shinra, and he'd already wasted his entire afternoon waiting for this damn appointment.

"It's big enough," he grumbled, rolling an imaginary cigarette between his fingers. "Just do some tests, all right? Or I'll go somewhere else."

They agreed, finally, to humor him with an ice-cold ultrasound and still more poking and prodding. The technician hemmed and hawed a lot and said he didn't like Shizuo's nodes, and though it was still probably nothing, they'd do a few more blood tests. Measure his pulse rate four times, sitting, standing, lying down, standing again. A few more ice-cold x-rays in a backless paper gown. More questions, more history. Did any diseases run in his family? What about his grandparents? Were they still living? What did they die of? On and on, until by the time they got to the biopsy, he'd damn near bitten a hole in his cheek.

Fearing he'd tense up again and break the needle, they let Celty come in and hold his hand.

She promised not to look until he was dressed, and just comforted him with: well, you had talked about getting something pierced.

He did laugh a little at that, and tried his best to relax. "Wasn't quite what I had in mind," he winced, not because it hurt, but because he expected it. That was the worst part; not the needle, but what needles meant and what he'd learned to associate them with. Always trauma, always something negative. Always something to reopen old wounds.

He was small when it first happened, and from then on, he'd always be small. The ceiling would always be stark white; the air would always be cold; and the hands would always be intrusive, save for one, gently smoothing his hair back from his forehead, anchoring him if only just a little bit.

He wasn't sure how to interpret her silence afterwards.

Celty wasn't shy with her PDA, and strangers quickly learned to take it for granted--its appearance, or its absence was matter of fact. So, for whatever reason afterwards, she wasn't speaking. Wouldn't look in his direction, but just nodded vaguely into space while Shizuo collected himself and apologized for breaking the chair.

Once they'd done with him, he was sent to sign a few forms and pick up his final lab script. "Oi, what's this?"

"Twenty-four hour urine catecholamine analysis," the desk nurse rattled off. "Don't worry, you can do it at home. Just take this downstairs as you leave. They'll give you a collection jug."

"Er," he muttered, and looked quickly askance. "Thanks?"

Was she at a loss for words, or was she being diplomatic to spare him the added grief? Celty wasn't a very good liar, after all. Her tells were all over the place, and right now she was wringing her hands in that distracted way that'd usually drive Shinra up a wall.

It's not right to keep secrets, he'd say, and anyway you're lousy at it.

"What'sa matter," Shizuo asked, nudging her lightly with an elbow. "Cat got your tongue?"

I don't have a tongue, she seemed to sigh, you know that.

And men don't have tits. "oi, I didn't mean that literally."

It's fine, she said. We don't need to speak, anyway.

Shizuo cleared his throat and nudged his glasses by the bridge. "I did something embarrassing, didn't I? Back there...."

Celty brushed his hand with cool fingers. Best not to worry about it, she seemed to say, but she wouldn't look at him as she seemed to say it.

She was upset with him, or for him, or because of him again. Whatever. He wasn't going to waste time agonizing about it; and if he lost any sleep that night he'd blame it on all the tea she kept pushing. "I don't need caffeine for the test to work," he texted. "Water would've done." He'd been up off the couch four times already, and that was just during the eleven o'clock news. If he had to suffer, then so did someone else.

He was sure there was some hifalutin' term for it. Schadenfreude. Shizu-freude.

Shared misery, Celty corrected, but shouldn't he be in bed?

"Couldn't sleep, kept waking up drenched," he texted. "Either it's raining, or my fever just broke."

Look outside, she sent, do you see rain?

The first drops fell right on cue. If Shizuo cared at all for irony, he would've died laughing right there and then. At best, he was able to muster a chuckle before settling in for the longest, most miserable night on earth. Maybe his last, or maybe his next to last. All of this, of course, he shared with her. Not to be morbid. No. If he'd wanted that, he would've turned off his cell.

He just needed to vent. He needed to do so without being judged. He needed to do so without worrying his brother. All of this, though, he kept to himself.

* * *

The next day started out thoroughly uneventful. Shizuo slept in, added some more to his most dubious collection, then went about wandering Ikebukuro in search of...not trouble, exactly, but a distraction.

Or maybe he was still feeling morbid and wanted to be around people, any people. He wasn't looking for a conversation so much, so Simon would do.

"Ah, Shizuo-kun, how goes the rebellion?" he asked with the calm conviction of somebody that could plow Shizuo easily through a wall. "Sushi! Russian Sushi! It's good! It's cheap!"

"If it's 'cause I beat you up last week," Shizuo trailed off.

"As they say, no hard feelings. A truce." Then he turned his back, rightly figuring Shizuo wasn't about to buy anything, and continued his pitch without missing a beat. "We have octopus! We have squid! Sushi, it's fresh!"

"Oi, at least give me a menu?"

Simon ignored him, and under any normal circumstances, any other day, this would've been grounds for some limit testing, but today was not that day. Today was different.

He slunk off muttering that "your squid's frozen anyway," and resolved to spend the rest of his days in stoic solitude, at least until Celty showed up for work.

No. He'd stop thinking about Celty and play a little game instead. He'd call it Live or Die. The rules would be simple: he'd have to perform a specific series of actions under a specific set of conditions; meet those conditions, and he lived; fail to meet those conditions, or fail to carry out the actions in proper sequence, it was over and Shizuo died. Just like when he and Kasuka were kids, and they'd pretend there was hot lava underneath the playground. A single slip spelled epic disaster, melted skin, hair in flames.

He could entertain himself like that for hours, since Ikebukuro was pretty much a giant playground, and no shortage of stuff to climb onto or jump off of. Lots of sculptures, edifices, and bits of weird architecture no-one would think to look twice at, and lots of people who were either consumed enough with their own shit not to notice Shizuo flying past, or who knew him and his antics well enough not to bother.

Yeah, he did that a lot. There he was, and there he went: tight-rope walking the tops of four bike-racks in a row. Four steps each, a skip to the next, and he'd live. Swing from that public sculpture, into the mall, before the security guard noticed and blew his whistle? Shizuo lived. If the whistle blew, it was over, he got caught. He was going to die. If he landed badly and mistimed, it was over. Broken ankle. He was going to die. If anyone got in his way while dodging around support pillars through the rotunda, it was over, he'd screwed up, he'd hurt people, and he was going to die. He'd die before ever seeing daylight. Out through the alleyway, dodging pallets and empty rubbish bins, over the fence, then launch into a back flip. Stick the landing? Shizuo lived. Get spotted by police? It was over, he'd wasted his life, he was going to die.

Alone. He was going to die alone, hounded, unless he did a passement into a forward tuck and roll off of that wall into the park. Make the vending machine in five strides from there? Shizuo lived. Flip a coin, if it landed heads, he lived. Tails? Well...he was feeling generous with himself that day, so he'd give it three tries, then treat or console himself with a milk coffee.

He got it in two. "Lucky me! Seems I get to live after all."

God would punish him for that. Equivalent exchange, or something like that.

And Orihara Izaya was Shizuo's penance. His Lex Luthor. Because whenever he got to thinking things were alright, whenever he smiled a little too much or looked a little too happy, Izaya came wafting in on a cloud of spite and cologne and spoiled everything.

"Those were some nice moves back there. Practicing for our next dance, Shizu-chan?"

He regretted wasting perfectly good coffee, but he knew in some still functioning portion of his hind-brain that he'd need two hands to deal with the annoyance. One to uproot the bike rack, and another to get any sort of decent spin on it. Good art took technique and planning, he thought gleefully. It needed spin in order to wrap itself around the target, otherwise it'd just glance off. It might break a few bones or at least knock him down pretty hard, but that wasn't art. That was just brutality, and Shizuo was no brute.

It was a damned shame not everybody shared his same aesthetics. "Come back, Iiiiiizayaaaa-kuuuuun....I have so much to show you!"

"Flattered, but not interested," he breezed, and damn could that bastard sprint. Damn, could he infuriate.

He knew what he'd do. He knew what he'd do if he ever caught hold of Izaya. But since he was no closer after all these years, he'd settle for trying to wing him first. And he'd miss. Though that bike rack made such a nice sound when it hit the street, though it had a good spin, it failed to come anywhere near Izaya, and almost took out a taxi-cab instead. Shizuo had screwed up. He was going to die.

He was going to die, and it would be Izaya's fault for dodging at the wrong moment.

"I told you what would happen!" He howled. "If you set foot in Ikebukuro again, I told you what would happen, Izaya!"

Empty threats. A whole load of hollering and chest-thumping signifying nothing but Shizuo's impotence. He wouldn't kill Izaya. He couldn't. If it wasn't Simon interfering, it was something else. That crack to the head last week had really fucking hurt, and Shizuo wasn't about to forget it. He wouldn't kill Izaya, no. But if he ever caught hold of him, he'd make him sorry.


	2. Ain't just a river in Egypt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shizuo copes with some troubling news, while Izaya does his best to stir the pot.

After all his talk and preoccupation with dying, he decided not to tell anybody about the phone call. Maybe that was ironic, but Shizuo remembered how much he disliked irony and settled, instead, for denial.

Classic stages-of-grief shit, he mused bitterly: proving he was human after all. Fallible, Shinra would say. After the denial, he expected anger to follow quickly. Though he hated that part, it was productive at least. Anger was useful. Anger got things done.

Denial sat on the couch all morning in its boxer shorts, listlessly flipping channels while its calls went straight to voice-mail. Denial didn't bother opening the blinds to see whether or not it was still raining; it wasn't going anywhere, anyhow. Denial was chain smoking, two cigarettes followed without pause by a third, through its coffee and breakfast. Why bother with the paper, it was all bad news anyway. Denial would rather focus on anything other than that, other than actually calling back to make an appointment he didn't need.

Denial, denial, denial. After all the trouble he'd gone to for those tests. After the jug and the forms and being told by not one, not two, but several people that he 'ought to get it looked at'. After being assured it was probably nothing, best to wait and see. After all that. Denial.

Either there was some mistake, like they'd switched his results with someone named Hanajima Shinzo, or there was more they weren't telling him, more that they couldn't say in a voice-mail. Maybe he was dying. Maybe he had less than a day. Maybe he was better off not knowing. And anyhow, by the time he'd managed to psych himself up and actually make the call, his cell had 'mysteriously' wound up broken. Snapped clean in two.

He hadn't wanted to leave the apartment at all that day, but he needed a phone for work; so it was on his way to the nearest kiosk for a costly replacement, that he ran into Celty. Or rather, Celty roared up beside him at the crosswalk, PDA at the ready.

How would he like to be kidnapped for a while?

He was just in no shape to be alone, she said, and frankly she felt guilty about leaving him last night to go work.

"Don't be ludicrous," he yelled above the wind. He sat pillion, hands gripping the saddle behind him. "Honestly, I'm a grown-up. I can look after myself!"

She had no response to that. More out of practicality, and needing both hands to steer, than irony. Still. It struck him as nice and appropriate.

"I'm starting to feel a little shanghaied," he shouted. "You told him, didn't you? Always putting you up to shit. Can't be arsed to do it himself!"

The line of her shoulders tensed as they took a sharp corner.

"Bet he cried," Shizuo prodded. "Did you hit him?"

He hadn't, and she didn't, and no, Shizuo couldn't. She'd wanted his opinion, that was all. If Shizuo wanted to be angry with someone, he should be angry with her.

"Why, because you care?"

Because she'd gone over Shizuo's head again. It wasn't her place, and she was sorry, but Shinra was a doctor, after all.

"Just...not that kind of doctor," he said. He wasn't a diagnostician or an oncologist. He didn't have access to Shizuo's labs. He couldn't say one way or another what the lump meant. However, he did have certain connections. Good connections. Legitimate ones.

"No," said Shizuo.

"Just hear me out--"

"I said no. It's nothing, anyway. A cyst."

"Of course," Shinra said tersely. "That is what they told you, right? Before or after the results came back? Did they do a biopsy? What other tests--"

"It's a cyst," Shizuo reiterated. "I told you not to worry about it."

Shinra turned away and quickly set the kettle down, quickly squared his shoulders and hid his face so Shizuo wouldn't see. Like he wouldn't know. "I have the name and number of a surgeon at Tokyo Uni--"

"Don't need a surgeon."

"He's the best in his field," Shinra continued, briskly reaching into a cabinet. "If I call now, I can get you in as early as next week."

"For what?"

"It'd just be a consult," Shinra said. "I know you had a lot of testing done at the clinic--I'm sorry, it wasn't like I meant to pry, but Shizuo--"

"I know." He wasn't mad. Not furious, anyway. He knew Shinra. He'd known him since grade-school. He was a worrier, sometimes with good reason, and aside from the colorful half-truths he'd concoct for Celty's benefit, he was usually not wrong.

"The urine catecholamine test," Shinra muttered, absently tapping the lid of the coffee jar.

"They said it looked suspect." Shizuo started gnawing at his cuticles. "I'll pretend I don't know what that means. So you wanna give me your informed medical opinion, Kishitani-sensei?"

"I couldn't," said Shinra. "It's not really my area, and what good would it do anyway?"

"You're smart," Shizuo muttered. "You've always been smart. Since we were kids."

Shinra set a couple of mugs on the counter, then quietly shut the cabinet.

"You know something," Shizuo continued, gnawing and gnawing 'til the skin was ragged, wishing he could smoke, wishing he could stop. "It doesn't help keeping it to yourself."

"Opinions are opinions," Shinra said flatly, and still, he didn't even have the nerve to look up. Turn around. Deal with it. "They don't constitute a diagnosis."

Except when they happen to be right, when the patient dies. "What is it you're afraid of, eh?"

Shinra flinched angrily, hands gripping the ledge of the counter white-knuckled, hard enough to crack. Like Shizuo's strength was contagious. "I'm not," he said stridently. "I think you're afraid. Why else would you wait so long? Why else would you need to argue with me? You know what? Fine, here's your diagnosis--"

"Oi," Shizuo muttered softly, as this wasn't funny anymore. Never was. Wasn't supposed to be. "Shin--"

"--You have cancer. It's terminal. You'll probably die."

Celty looked like she wanted to slug him for that, like she wanted to slap the both of them. The PDA materialized in a fountain of black soot, letters angrily spilling across its face. Had he no conscience? No feelings whatsoever? And Shizuo--

He'd shot up from his chair, shoved past the table so hard that one of the legs snapped off, and advanced on the counter, on Shinra's cowering back. "Why don't you turn around? Ah? You're gonna say shit like that, at least have the decency to face me!"

Shinra had feelings all right. He had a conscience. It bled and bled, and would probably poison him if he let it. "I didn't mean it--" he wheezed. "I'm so--"

Shizuo grabbed him, launched around the counter before Celty could do or say a thing, and whirled him about. "You always apologize," he snarled, and saw just how hard Shinra struggled not to cry. "Stop doing that. Stop being sorry and just deal with it."

The crying started in earnest, then, and Shinra got angry. He tore free, hauled back, and smacked Shizuo right in the nose. Then he took a deep, hissing breath, and calmly went back to making his coffee.

"It wasn't your fault," Shizuo said. Obstinate to the end. Shinra could hit him with a frying pan and it still wouldn't penetrate. Still wouldn't make Shizuo wrong. "That time, you couldn't--"

His shoulders stiffened. "Don't."

Celty must've been beside herself. She'd stopped typing and just stood there wreathed in soot, poised like she wanted to do something, grab them and knock their idiot heads together, like she just needed a reason.

"No, it's fine," Shizuo husked, though it wasn't fine, and he was definitely bleeding. "I'm the one who should apologize."

"Hunf," Shinra laughed bitterly. He bent to locate the Whiskey bottle beneath the sink--there for times of emergency only--and poured generously into each of their mugs. "Please. You're not sorry."

Wrong. He was so wrong it hurt. Shizuo brought his heel down on the table top. Cracked it in two with a deafening shotgun report, and sent the remaining three legs sprawling. "No, not for that, I'm not," he roared.

Fair was fair. Shinra hit him, so he hit back.

"So dramatic," Shinra sighed, and at last turned around to face Shizuo. "Over a lump. And so what if you do have cancer? Is this how you're going to handle it? By throwing a tantrum?" He spooned Nescafe into both mugs, then poured the creamer, then two heaping spoonfuls of sugar each.

"You're scared, I understand," he continued. "It's natural to feel that way. No-one wants to hear they've got something serious...."

Which was why doctors lied. They lied all the time to spare people grief.

Shizuo slugged back a snort. He hated the taste of his own blood, but he was so used to it, he hardly ever gagged anymore. He was being dramatic, childish even, but he wasn't scared. And Shinra wasn't his best and oldest friend, maybe his only remaining friend, for nothing. "Let me pay for the table," he muttered by way of thanks.

"Don't worry about it," Shinra said, and handed him a wet paper towel along with his coffee. "I'll call my insurer in the morning. And you--"

"Yeah," said Shizuo. "That number."

***

That night, he lined his remaining cigarettes up in a row and counted them out. Thirty one, eleven and an unopened pack. He didn't like odd numbers, so he smoked one before resolving, definitely, to start quitting. He'd be sure to let people know he was quitting, too, for accountability and as a warning to stay on his good side.

Tom laughed when he mentioned it. This wasn't Shizuo's first attempt at quitting, and it wouldn't be his last; but he'd be accountable if it made Shizuo happy. He just wouldn't be accountable for anything Shizuo broke when he went through withdrawal. What was all this talk of quitting, anyway? Could it be he was worried?

Maybe. Maybe it was the one thing in a life filled with violence and rotten luck that he could control. Maybe he needed a distraction. Maybe he'd changed. There were a lot of maybes. He was in a contemplative mood, he guessed; he'd had to open his mind to some new possibilities, and that always made a man prone to examine himself.

He must've been pretty wrapped up in it, too, because he passed Izaya on the way home, and instead of reaching for the next heavy thing he could nail him with, Shizuo stopped and quietly muttered: "it must be fated, Izaya-kun."

It was pretty annoying that he didn't seem surprised, just turned and backed off a few wary steps. "What's got you so cheerful, Shizu-chan?"

"Life, Izaya-kun. Do I need a reason?" He trained his three smoking fingers, like a pistol, over Izaya's heart. "You have one day to live. The doctor says it's fatal, and you should make the best of your time."

Izaya choked up a guffaw, the sound graceless and oddly--he'd never say reassuringly--human. "Hell of a conversation starter," he snorted. "You know I don't respond to empty threats."

"And I don't make them," Shizuo said quietly. "'Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow, you die.'" Was it his imagination, or just wishful thinking? Or did Izaya look spooked?

"What is this," he asked, backing off another wary, wavering step. "If this is part of some twelve step program, I should say you're doing a mighty piss-poor job." He dropped his hands deliberately to his sides and pulled them into his sleeves. "Either you've finally gone off the deep end, Shizuo, or you're the one dying. Which is it?"

"You don't know," said Shizuo. "Do you think that makes me more dangerous, Izaya-kun, or less?"

"Depends, doesn't it?" Izaya tilted his head and fixed Shizuo with a hard stare. "Humans tend to do foolish things when shown their mortality." He raised his hand and mimed squeezing a trigger. "'Eat, drink, be merry' is it? Come to ask me out on a date?"

"I'll tell you what I'd do," Shizuo said, determined and unfazed. "If there was no tomorrow, I'd run you out of Ikebukuro for good. I'd go to war, twenty-four hours. I wouldn't stop 'til I was dead."

"Is that supposed to scare me? And here we were having such a nice chat."

Here, Shizuo decided he'd had enough. He dropped his dog-end and ground it out.

"What is it?" Izaya asked. "It's fatal, right? You've got one day. Maybe it's hepatitis. The big C?"

"Allergies," Shizuo countered. "Whenever I see you, I get violently ill." And whenever he got sick, he tended to smash things. It was fatal all right, but not for Shizuo. He uprooted the tree as a matter of obligation, and raised it like he meant business.

Izaya tilted his shoulders diffidently and laughed. "All right! If it's war you want, Shizu-chan, then come at me. Divorce your humanity. Become a Golem. Destroy everything like there's no tomorrow!"

Shizuo took a practice swing and toppled a few benches. Trees weren't normally his style, but he only had to connect once to make it count, right? Catch Izaya in the branches and trap him like a rat in a cage, or scoop him up and fling him, or drop it and leave him pinned. He had ten good meters, so anything was possible. He could miss and still make his point.

He wasn't to be fucked with.

Izaya knew it. He danced drunkenly out of reach for a few steps, laughing and laughing until Shizuo's next swing came just a little too close. Then he got serious, took off running like there was no tomorrow, like a fatal case. Took off in a direction he knew Shizuo wouldn't follow, and vanished like a coward.

"Good," Shizuo grunted, staggering to keep his balance. "Glad we were able to have this talk."

Ten good meters, wasted. He'd have to come up with something better next time.

* * *

He didn't think to ask about the Golem until his consult several days later, where a CT scan confirmed two isolated breast tumors, and an adrenal neoplasm. Pheochromocytoma, nestled within his body for years like a sleeping giant, his yellow sun, silently releasing adrenaline and noradrenaline whenever he got stressed.

It hadn't metastasized yet, which was good, lucky for him. Even in the presence of other tumors, there was a slim ten percent chance of malignancy down the line, and those cases usually responded well to treatment. Surgery, drugs, radiation, and chemotherapy only as a last resort.

Lucky for him, the doctor said, and there was that word again. Lucky, because this type of multiple neoplasm was usually diagnosed at autopsy. Lucky his was not that advanced, he hadn't yet (yet?) developed thyroid nodules, and he wasn't dying. He wasn't crazy. He was right to have it checked out.

He didn't just have Cancer, he was Cancer. He was strong because of Cancer. Angry because of Cancer. Violent because of Cancer. Everything he was, and everything he felt, amounted to a mass of rogue cells and faulty chemical signals. It was him, but it wasn't him, and it was treatable.

Shizuo's fingers had started to go numb. How he itched for a cigarette. How he itched to get his hand around Izaya's neck; choke him for being right. It wouldn't be Shizuo's fault if he died, it'd be the tumor's. It'd be fitting.

The doctor steepled his fingers and leveled an all too familiar look at Shizuo--the kind that had always ended in cuff-crutches, a back-brace, or surgery. "What I'm about to suggest will sound scary, but I want you not to be apprehensive--it's a very common, standard procedure with this kind of tumor, though it isn't breast cancer--it's a cancer of the breast. What we would do normally, is remove all of the affected tissue, the ducts, and a few, but not all, Heiwajima-san, of the lymph-nodes."

A mastectomy. That was what that meant.

"But I don't have breasts." Tits, bosoms, moobs. It hadn't been funny in middle school, and it was even less funny now. He was quiet, shy--violent rages notwithstanding--and he didn't seem to sway any obvious direction, so that must make him a woman. An ugly woman. Let's shove her into the girl's changing room where she belongs! Look how skinny. Look at those tits....

Shizuo stared at the desk-top in front of him; good solid oak, had to weigh at least eighty kilos. He could split it straight down the middle, like he had Shinra's kitchen table, or he could mule kick it through the wall, down to the street below. He could take one deep breath, stand up, and wreck the office in two seconds flat, or he could hoist the doctor onto the coat rack and leave him dangling by his belt-loops. Though it wouldn't change anything. Wouldn't make him feel better.

"I understand this might sound shocking to you, Heiwajima-san, but all men have a small amount of breast tissue, and they can develop tumors there. While we're not yet sure what caused yours, there are certain genetic syndromes...."

Multiple endocrine neo-something, Hipple-Von-whatever, Li-fersomethingorother. Diseases named after dead guys, or ending in -osis, and he wouldn't know which one he had for a month or more. He wouldn't know if he had five years or ten. He was over a lava pit, and he wouldn't know anything with any certainty from then on; only that he owed Shinra another apology.

Sorry. Sorry to make him say 'I told you so'. Sorry to make him worry. Sorry for not being Superman after all.

"Well, you'll have some time to think it over, but not too long. I want to see you again in a week, and we'll outline a treatment plan." With that, he closed Shizuo's folder--the sum of his entire life, his entire skinny, six-two frame on paper--and stood up to shake his hand.

The Golem popped into his head unbidden, again, and he knew it wouldn't leave until he asked about it. It wasn't anything he thought he could use later on against Izaya. He wasn't that clever. But it'd be one less hair on his tongue if he understood, he hoped.

"The Golem of Prague," Shinra held forth, two beers and two hours later, "well, it depends on which story you want to go by."

Or, not just a story, but a story about a story, a mimetic legend said to be started in the early seventeenth century by Rabbi Judah Loew ben Bezalel, the Maharal of Prague. It was said he created the Golem out of soil to protect the Jews in his community from the anti-semitic riots of the time.

The bit about the riots was true, Shinra said, so it was easy to see how a myth like that might become so widely espoused.

"Like a headless rider that goes around hitting people with buckets of blood?"

"Well, somewhat," Shinra said, "Anyway--the Golem was strong, but not very smart. If you instructed it to do something, it would carry it out literally and to the letter. In some cases it was said to lose control and turn violently on its creator." Shinra paused there, uncertain. "Of course, I don't think you're like that at all. For one thing--"

"How did they stop it?" Shizuo interrupted.

"Well, no-one even knows which version is even the correct one. In at least one case, it was said the Golem fell in love, and thus was able to control its berserk nature--or--was that thus was able to be killed?"

According to whichever version of whichever story Shinra was mangling, the way to kill a Golem was to erase the 'aleph' from the word 'emet'--truth--often written on its forehead with soot, to create 'met'. Death.

"Destroy everything." Shizuo swirled the last sip of beer slowly around the bottom of the can, then tipped it back. "You know what another name for a tumor is, Shinra? Terratoma. The doctor told me. It means something monstrous."

"But you're not at all like that," Shinra insisted. "The Golem was a shell, an empty husk with no soul or will of its own. You have a will! You have agency! This thing doesn't control you."

"I'm always wrecking stuff I don't mean to," Shizuo said. "I wrecked your table when I got angry."

"That, you meant," Shinra snorted. "Anyway, tables can be replaced."

But friends couldn't.

Shizuo sighed and shoved up to his feet. "Where's Celty at?"

"She's working. Why? You're not going out to--Shizuo--"

"What?" He said benignly. "What makes you think I'm up to anything?"

"Shizuo."

He collected his glasses and his attaché, and headed for the atrium, heels clicking jauntily as he walked to a chorus of 'Shizuo, please, Shizuo, think'. "Sorry, couldn't hear you. Must have mud in my ears."

Shinra let loose an exasperated breath and stepped back, flashing his palms. Fine, let the idiot do what he wants. "Just don't hurt him too badly, please. I don't want to end up getting involved."

With those words, Shizuo stepped onto the elevator and lit his sixth-to-last cigarette.

* * *

"They say no man is an island unto himself, Izaya-kun. Do you ever get lonely?"

He hadn't sought him out, he hadn't meant to. He felt he owed Shinra, hell, himself that much; but he'd be lying if he said he'd made even a token effort to avoid Izaya. He knew all the places the bastard liked to frequent, and he knew if he wandered long enough he'd run into him at some point. If it took him several hours, well, it wasn't his intention, he just had nothing better to do on a Friday night.

Izaya barely turned to acknowledge him, just kept walking with Shizuo at his heels, Shizuo's fifth-to-last cigarette trained like a pistol at his back. "So you're stalking me now."

Maybe he was still feeling morbid. Maybe he was that lonely after all. Maybe he was a man with nothing left to lose. Maybe the manipulative little shit was already messing with him, because he didn't feel any of the usual impotent anger around Izaya. He felt strangely purposeful.

"I'm behind you, but I'm not stalking you. Don't imply shit."

"What do you want?"

"I wasn't trying to have anything to do with you," Shizuo said firmly. "But frankly, our last conversation's been bugging me."

Izaya stopped and pivoted, grinning silkily in that way he knew made Shizuo's insides twist. "What's that? Something I said hit a nerve, did it?" He waltzed backwards, arms laced behind him. "I really am flattered."

Ordinarily, by this point, he'd be uprooting the nearest heavy object to drop on Izaya; but Shizuo was imbued with purpose. He was a man, not a monster. He possessed reason, will-power, agency. He wasn't about to let some sawed-off, fey little man jerk his chain. No. It was time he did some jerking of his own, and see just how far he could push things before they snapped.

"Flattered," Izaya purred, "but you had your chance."

Shizuo took a step forward. It occurred to him, he'd never seen Izaya angry before. He'd seen him annoyed, smug, bemused, nonplussed, but never angry. Never furious the way Shizuo got. And that, he hated. Izaya thought he was so superior, so in control.

"What's the matter, Shizu-chan, have I hit another nerve? Like me to kiss it and make it all better?"

"Don't deflect," he snarled, and there was another thing he hated. Izaya's flirting. His teasing. It was indiscriminate, easy, and never sincere. It was a joke, a weapon he used to manipulate girls and whip more insecure men into a panicked froth. With Shizuo, though, it was personal.

It was every guilty whisper in every locker room ever. It was what boys feared and girls fetishized. It was his truth, and his business, and frankly they were all past it now. He'd had more sex than Izaya could ever taunt him with, and he wasn't about to rise to that old pettiness again.

Izaya was pretty good at walking backwards, didn't miss a single step. "Fine. What is it you want?"

"You've got one day left to live," Shizuo said calmly. "You've already accepted your fate. You've got loads of money. No limits. You can go anywhere, do anything, see anyone...."

"I already do those things, Shizu-chan." He smirked and showed his palms. "I'm not the one who's dying, though. Am I?"

No, but neither was Shizuo. "You know that for a fact?" He said. "Maybe what I have is catching." He lurched forward, feinting with his mouth open, threatening with all the sex Izaya had never had. Would never have. "You might be infected already!"

Out came the knife, an arcing flash across his guarding arm.

A quick smack sent it clattering away, and Izaya springing back with a hiss. "You have finally lost it," he said, warily crouched and reaching, ready to strike again. "What do you want from me?"

Shizuo examined his sleeve--sliced cleanly from cuff to elbow--and there was another shirt Izaya had ruined. He wasn't happy about that, but he wasn't furious, either. He still had that over Izaya. "A simple answer," he said. "Go on, lie to me, whatever. I don't care."

"If I lie, what's the point?"

"You always lie," said Shizuo. "That isn't the point. The point is, we're having a dialog. It's no good if you don't contribute."

"Always a straight shooter," Izaya snorted, and rose loosely to his feet. "Since when are you interested in anything I have to say? Better to waste your breath bargaining to be spared, than on a person like me, Shizu-chan."

"No-one's bargaining."

Izaya flashed his empty palms, and began ticking off fingers. "Oh, yeah. First comes denial, then anger, followed by depression. Of course, you're never one to do things in an orderly fashion, but you know the score. This here? Classic bargaining."

He dropped his hands. His left to his side, his right twitching towards the spot where his knife lay. "Why so scared? And why come to me?" His voice dropped a haunting octave, petty theatrics that never impressed anyone. "Is there something I can offer you, Shizu-chan? A shoulder to cry on? Are you lonely in your time of dying? Nobody left to comfort you, because they've all run away?"

All but Izaya. And pretty soon, he'd be run too. He always ran.

"Truth hurts," Izaya hissed. "Would you like to know what I hate most about you, Shizuo? It's your honesty. So go on, tell me the truth."

Shizuo advanced a step, just to watch him flinch and stumble back. "Which part?"

"Any part. I'll listen, I promise."

He had to laugh at that. Laugh as Izaya flipped that knife up with his toe and snatched it from one hand to the other. Lightning fast. He was on the defensive, always only for Shizuo. It was like all the sex he'd never had, channeled into violence. It was telling.

"I'm not lonely," Shizuo said. "I'm alone. There's a difference. I push people away so they won't get hurt. But you--"

"I'm not interested in hearing about me," he said. "If you came here to pick a fight, then let's get it over with. No more bullshit."

"What's wrong?" Shizuo leaned back on his left leg and contemplated taking a swing, just to see his reaction. "You're not in control all the sudden, so you resort to violence? I'll tell you the truth, Izaya-kun. I hate violence."

"More than you hate me?" Izaya grinned and flashed his knife. "More than I hate you?"

"Hah!" Shizuo skipped back. "You still wanna go to war? You think it's that simple?" He juked, ducked around the next strike, swung and purposely missed. Purposely whistled just past Izaya's ear, and hit the tree behind him instead. It split down the middle with a splintering crack, but remained standing. No sense in going overboard just to make his point.

Izaya backed straight into it, chin lowered, eyes up like a threatened dog, and plastered himself there; a cornered animal with nowhere left to run. Scared, he was scared. That still made him dangerous, but more importantly, it made him fallible. Weak. He wasn't the one in control here. Shizuo was.

"You're the one who's lonely," Shizuo said. "You lie, you manipulate, you surround yourself with strangers, and you push away anyone who gets too close. Why so afraid? What is it about you?"

"Daddy never hugged me," Izaya spat mockingly. "If you're going to come at me with cheap psychobabble, at least know what you're talking about."

"I do," Shizuo loomed closer. "Pot meets kettle, Izaya. We're more alike than you know. You hate me, you also hate yourself."

"And so do you," said Izaya. "Don't we make a lovely pair? Don't you think you know me soooo well. I'll tell you something, Shizuo, you really think you're being clever. You think you can threaten me. Bully me. Hurt me. Because you're hurting, and you've got no-one else to blame."

"Pretty much," Shizuo grunted. "You're a smart one, Izaya-kun. Well no-one appreciates a know-it-all."

He moved in and closed the gap, closer than he'd been in a long long time, and saw just how much Izaya had changed since High-school. How much his fear had stripped away. How little control he had. He was a know-it-all, but he wasn't god. He couldn't predict what Shizuo might do, he couldn't stop him, couldn't make him, couldn't push him away any more.

"What is it," Izaya moaned ruefully. "You want me to face my mortality and piss my pants in fear? Come on, then, show me."

He would, but not because Izaya asked. He was still in control, he had agency, reason, and a will of his own. Therefore, it was Shizuo's choice and his alone to tug open his vest and yank up his shirt. His choice, and for his own purpose, that he showed Izaya what the surgeon had drawn there with indelible ink--the clean demarcation showing where they'd perform the mastectomy--because he hadn't shown anyone else yet. It was supposed to be just for him. Part of his truth. It was for him to think about, him to decide, him to erase or not erase. And it was his to share if he wished.

"There it is," he said, shoved his shirt all the way to his chin, let Izaya get a damn good fill. "You pissing yourself yet, Izaya? It's the big C, and here's where they're gonna cut me open." He said it calmly, more calmly than he'd felt in a long time, and he wanted to laugh. "I've got more where this came from, too. More where they can't get to it. It's on my adrenal glands. It's why I am the way I am."

Izaya sucked in a hiss. Fear and knee-jerk sympathy in one tender little breath.

He had to remind himself, carefully, that this was still the same obnoxious, machinating little fucker that delighted in making him look foolish; who'd literally thrown him under the bus, then laughed about it.

That. Had hurt. But he was past it now. He was better.

"See," he continued. "I'm rotting inside. We're all rotting inside, even you. But me, I'm rotting faster. I'm not telling you this 'cause I want any sympathy. 'Cause I know you don't give a shit. 'Cause I count on you not giving a shit."

He raised his left arm and laid it up against the tree-trunk above Izaya's head, walling him in, embracing the risk he'd have another knife on him. Embracing the intimacy of his last spiteful act. "Here it is, Izaya-kun, this is your moment to feel good about yourself. Schadenfreude. You can gloat now."

Izaya looked up at him with lowered brows, with that same cornered doggy expression, and it was finally beginning to piss Shizuo off. "I'm sorry," he said ruefully. "I'm really sorry, Shizu-chan. But I didn't give you Can--"

"Don't," Shizuo hissed, right up in Izaya's face, up close and personal. "You even have the nerve to apologize, you conniving little cock--"

"I didn't make you a monster, either," Izaya said. "But you need a reason to feel like one, don't you?"

Shizuo shook him sharply. "Shut up."

"Why?" He grabbed onto Shizuo's arm with both hands and held tight, glaring his defiance through a mussed fringe of black hair. "Truth hurts, Shizuo. You have no-one to blame but your own freak genetics. Shinra's right to be fas--"

He shook him again. "Don't you mention his name."

"I bet he'd just love to cut you open himself."

"I said don't!"

"Or else what," he teased, lips curling into a sharp, feral little smile. "You hate violence, Shizu-chan."

But he hated Izaya more. Shizuo jerked him up by the lapels, and lifted him easily off his feet. He was light as a house-cat, a ball of hissing fluff and spite of no real threat or consequence. No dodging this time, but he'd sure as hell bounce when he landed. Shizuo wound back and threw him.

Threw him and missed.

"Slow, Shizu-chan. Too slow!" He bounced off of Shizuo's arm and landed in a crouch, knife flashing. He'd slipped out of his shirt to escape, and his bare chest, his perfect pink nipples, taunted Shizuo. "You had me and you wasted your chance!"

Shizuo flung the shirt back into his face and bounded at him, risking a slashed palm to come in under his guard. Izaya was fast, but Shizuo had reach. He snaked in under one arm and across the chest, clotheslining him full stop, then pivoted his shoulders and slammed Izaya into the dirt. Sent the knife skittering away, and pinned him with a knee to the chest.

He leaned on it then, really leaned on it, balled his fist and wound back his arm. He feinted, hoping to see that flinch again. That fear. Confirmation that he was strongest. He was in control. He was the real monster, and he deserved everything bad that happened to him. But Izaya just lay there looking at him, breath hissing in and out, waiting. Like he wanted Shizuo to hit him, or like he didn't believe Shizuo could.

Which was why he had to. It was a stinger. Purposeful and deliberate like a surgeon, he connected at an angle, neatly split Izaya's lip and bloodied his left nostril, then dropped back and let his fist relax. He waited.

He expected retaliation. He welcomed it. This was war! So when Izaya rolled up on him with a sharp fist, with all his weight, with all his momentum, Shizuo braced himself and took it. Izaya's knuckles kissed his cheek, angrily splitting the skin beneath his left eye and glancing off to bloody his nose in turn. The blow turned his head aside and sent his vision full of sparks. It should have hurt more. He hated that it didn't.

Shizuo spat out blood and sat back to catch his breath.

They were square now. He hated violence and he didn't want to have to escalate, so he wouldn't hit Izaya again. He wouldn't have to. Izaya hung onto the front of his shirt for a just a few seconds afterwards, gasping and bleeding--another shirt, ruined by him--then sagged back to lie spent. His eyes rested accusingly on Shizuo for a second, then slid past him.

"Hurts, don't it?" Shizuo rasped. "Bet that got your heart beating faster."

He hated he was capable of this, hated that it made Izaya right. He hated himself. Hated, hated, hated himself. He was a monster. He deserved everything bad that happened to him. He'd screwed up, he had Cancer, he wanted to die.

Izaya rolled his head towards Shizuo, eyes skimming past his face down to his chest. "Scared," he slurred. "You want me to fix it for you...Shizu-chan?"

"Huh," Shizuo laughed, then he looked down.

The cut was shallow, a thin red slice across his chest, drawn neatly on the dotted line as if by a surgeon; it hadn't bled much for very long, but it would leave a nice permanent scar.

"There," Izaya whispered, "All better now."

* * *

He was going to have the surgery--that much was decided--the when of it, though, seemed to float forever above Shizuo's head. One day, two, and then five. Almost a week until the final consult. He retraced the line as it faded, over and over with blue marker, over the mark Izaya had left, as a reminder. Soon, surgery. He was going to let them cut him open. He'd take the pills, then radiation--a little Kryptonite for a shot at normalcy--then more surgery, and he'd never hurt anyone ever again.

Why wouldn't he talk about it? Celty wanted to know. There was no reason to feel embarrassed, or like he was burdening them unduly--herself or Shinra. She cared for Shizuo, they both did.

He was scared, she understood. She knew what it was like to lose something.

"You want it back, don't you?" He asked. "You could get it back. You could find it."

But what if she never did? She was willing to entertain the possibility, if not accept it. She'd looked for twenty years already, yet she remained headless.

"You have no head, I have no tits," he muttered. "Maybe I should let them cut off my head instead, and give it to you..."

I could say something mean right now about you not using it, she typed out rapidly, but I won't. I'm not at all like that.

"You just did," Shizuo snorted, jabbing a rude finger at her helmet shield. "Come on, if you're gonna go pulling punches like that..."

She mimed a contrite smile with one hand, pinkie finger extended. Forgive me?

"Shinra's been a bad influence on you," Shizuo said. He stood up and started pacing. He was down to his third to last cigarette in a pack, he'd already wasted number four cooling down after the whole Golem incident, and his lack of self-control galled him. Not all of it was the tumor, he knew. People were people, and his personality was a part of him; incurable.

He rolled the cylinder in his fingers. "I haven't told him yet" he muttered. "Kasuka."

Celty was quiet a moment, then: If you need encouragement, I say go for it! Be strong and do your best! She made a bicep polishing gesture, PDA raised skyward.

Shizuo laughed dryly. "Thanks. Not quite the kick in the ass I was hoping for but--" He jumped a little when the sole of her boot met his backside, then started laughing in earnest.

You'll do it, then?

He would. He owed Kasuka a long overdue beer and dinner, and he'd be between projects soon. No reason to put things off any longer. The question was, how to broach things? He'd ask Celty to help him rehearse a speech, but her acting was sub-par at _best_, and things had a potential to get very weird very fast.

So, he'd just come right out and say it.

He'd text first: oi, oi, doing anything this week? I've got some free time, so let's grab a beer.

He'd leave off calling for later, since he didn't want it to sound urgent. Although what he was about to do was the verbal, emotional equivalent of dropping a fridge on Kasuka's head, it was best not to lead with bad news right away. The guy had enough things to worry about. He braced himself, then, and after smoking cigarette number three, he called home and talked to his parents via speaker. An hour of crying and what-ifs, whys, and all he could do was let it roll over him. Apologize, because if it was anyone's fault, it was his own.

Afterwards, he set the phone down so it wouldn't get broken, and punched couch cushions until he didn't feel so much like screaming.


	3. Ceasefire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A most dubious truce, and a most dubious trust.

Izaya avoided him for a while after the fight.

Shizuo had made good his promise not to involve Shinra, and made Izaya show him the way to his Shinjuku apartment. He'd carried the half-conscious Izaya three miles on his back, because taking the train in their state would have drawn too much suspicion. Because an ambulance would've raised questions, and Shizuo did not feel like going back to jail. Because after all that, he was obligated; and Izaya was his problem to deal with, whether he liked it or not.

"Hurts," Izaya slurred into his neck. "My head hurts."

That had been cigarette number four, wasted.

"Give me your keys," Shizuo muttered around it. "Is there a code to get in?"

He remembered unlocking the door and carrying Izaya inside. He'd navigated his way to the dark bedroom and dumped Izaya there, like a sleepy child, onto the bedspread. He heard Izaya mutter something as he turned to go, and stopped in his tracks.

"I could die," Izaya murmured. "If left like this, I could start bleeding into my brain and die."

The same could be said if Shizuo stayed. He might lose his temper again, or Izaya might already be dying. If it was the latter, why waste his last breath bargaining with Shizuo, the man who'd brained him, to stay? Was it to reinforce his guilt, or was it the real Izaya--the honest part of him that he kept so stealthily locked down--peeking out through dilated pupils? Hurt. Scared. Alone. Accusatory.

"You want an ambulance?" Shizuo asked. And screw jail. He wasn't likely to press charges, and Shizuo had ample proof it was self-defense.

"No. There's an icepack in the box," he slurred, gesturing towards the hall. "The big silver one...the box..."

He wasn't making sense, but Shizuo rightly assumed he meant the freezer. This was bad. He'd never, in all of his rages, killed someone before. He wondered if this one time would finally become the exception, if Izaya wasn't just messing with him.

"Don't die," he called out, casually rifling through the kitchen on his way to the fridge.

He noted how neat everything was, how everything had its place, how even the vegetables in the crisper were arranged precisely just so, and not piled at random, and it annoyed the shit out of him. No junk food, it looked like; no sweets, no biscuits; and the bread was some kind of artisanal whole grain nonsense that looked expensive and probably tasted like self-righteousness. Of course Izaya would have to be some kind of health nut. While rummaging through the ice-box--hotel sized bottles of vodka, shochu, whiskey, bourbon, and rum all tucked carefully amidst the organic, grass-fed tofu cubes, away from prying eyes--Shizuo briefly contemplated moving things around, stealing something, just to remind Izaya he'd been there.

He returned, icepack and two bottles of green tea in hand, to find Izaya propped up in bed with a laptop, face lit pale blue by the screen.

Shizuo tossed the icepack and one of the bottles onto the bed, and enjoyed a moment's satisfaction at how clearly irritated he seemed. "Who's that you're chatting with?"

"Why should it concern you?"

"It doesn't," said Shizuo, "I'm leaving now, anyway. If you start bleeding from the ears or anything, call someone else for help."

Izaya said nothing to stop him this time, nothing about the nicked bottle, and Shizuo went downstairs to go sleep in the atrium, drinking as he walked. He woke to a note from Izaya, taped to the glass above his head: 'Thank you for a wonderful night. If you value your life, stay out of Shinjuku from now on. XOXO--Izaya-kun'

Shizuo wrenched the security door clean off its hinges, and laughed.

He wouldn't see Izaya again for almost a week, but was reassured through various sources that the man was very much alive, and still very much a flea gnawing away at Ikebukuro's underbelly, even if Shizuo failed to catch him at it.

* * *

That week--during which Izaya prudently avoided him, and Shizuo prudently did not care--Kasuka would return his call. They'd meet in Westgate park, and from there they'd walk through town and talk about nothing very important. They'd stop at some vendor stalls along the way for a few of Shizuo's favorite snacks and then, over cold beer and various fried things--bad for your health, said Kasuka, even if you are still skinny--Shizuo would grow quiet.

"That's what I wanted to talk about," he said uncertainly, and who the hell was he all the sudden? He meant to get straight to the point, but the point was starting to recede farther and farther away the more he grasped for it.

Kasuka served him a blank look. He was used to bad news circulating around Shizuo, after-all. Had he knocked his spine out of place again? Was he in trouble with the law? Had he finally made good his threats on that Orihara Izaya's life?

"You really think badly of me, huh?"

"Why say that?"

"You're giving me a look," said Shizuo.

"It's not a look," Kasuka sighed, "I've been doing interviews all day, this is the first chance I've had to unwind."

"Not gonna fall asleep on me, are you?" Good, now Shizuo had an out to start second-guessing himself. Only a very shitty person would unload a pile of bad news right then. Maybe....

"I can't promise," he said. "So you'd better tell me now, before I start snoring."

Shizuo scratched listlessly at his earlobe. "I'm having surgery."

Kasuka blinked and hesitated over his edamame. He seemed wide awake now.

"Yeah," Shizuo continued, "they're gonna cut off my head and re-attach it to someone else. Pretty routine. Also, I've got breast cancer."

Kasuka reached across the table and refilled Shizuo's glass. "What will they replace it with?" He said wanly, not missing a beat. "A pumpkin?"

"Yeah, one of those big English ones," Shizuo said, drinking to help sooth his nerves; as if that had ever worked in the past. "A Japanese pumpkin would just look weird, don't you think?"

Kasuka agreed, green didn't suit Shizuo at all, and he was an asshole to lead with such a shitty joke.

"I was trying not to worry you," Shizuo said. "People tend to get worried when you say things like 'cancer' and 'breast' in the same sentence."

"Especially since you don't have those." Kasuka gnawed sullenly on a pod; he'd never just pull the nuts out, he had to gnaw until he'd gotten every bit of salt off. The exact same behavior over which he'd give Shizuo never ending hell--stop chewing, brother, it's gross.

"An a-cup at best," Shizuo said, and if he was the one joking, it was okay. "Oi, you're not laughing."

Kasuka dropped the pod, or what was left of it, into an empty bowl. When he looked up, his eyes were big with hurt. "It's not funny. Shizuo--"

"It's all right," he said, fiddling with an unlit cigarette. "If I can joke about it, you can laugh. Promise I won't tell anyone you're not an android."

"That's Cyborg." Kasuka dipped a pinkie finger into his beer foam, then forlornly popped it in his mouth. "Hah."

"They caught it early," Shizuo said. "The thing is, there's a tumor on my adrenal gland...that's part of why I am the way I am. Though it's not an excuse--"

"Brother, it's okay, really."

"It's not okay," Shizuo insisted. "But it's gonna be. I'm gonna get treated. No more anger, no more violence. I won't be a burden on you ever again."

Kasuka frowned thunderously, as strong a show of emotion as he'd ever allow. Scarily, he looked more like Shizuo than he'd like to admit. It proved he wasn't adopted, and he wasn't a cyborg. "You aren't a burden," he said dourly. "You can be a total dick, sometimes, sure. But that's what brothers do."

"I'll still do that," Shizuo promised. "That's the one thing they can't cure. That and yer face."

He'd keep up with the jokes for a while afterwards. They weren't very funny, and there were only two people beside him that 'got it'--Kasuka being one, Celty being the other--but it helped to calm his anxieties. No more talk of losing his tits, no more talk of Kryptonite, no more excuses.

Friday morning, before coffee, before any sane person had a right to be up, Shizuo met with his surgeon for a final evaluation before surgery. It took him two doses of Solanax, along with his alpha blocker, but Shizuo got through it without cracking a single tooth--his or the doctor's.

They talked about when would be best for him, what he could expect before and after, about sentinel nodes and axillary nodes, when he'd start radiation and what that would be like. They talked about his concerns and where he actually had a say in things, encouraged him to ask questions if he had any. How long would he need to take medication? Could he continue working? Would he have to give up beer? Would he have any sensation after surgery? What if the tumors came back?

He remembered nodding through the mastectomy talk, how he would lose a nipple, how they would reconstruct it if he so chose, and how it was important to avoid stretching for the first few weeks, but only part of Shizuo was really engaged in all that. He wasn't sure what he felt, whether depression or acceptance, or some queasy muddle of the two had set in--if it wasn't just the pills at work--but for a while after walking out, it felt like the world's volume had been turned down. He'd had his say, signed his forms, and in his mind it was all as good as done.

There was no-one left to talk to, no-one he hadn't already unburdened himself on, so Shizuo quietly went about his business: eating, bathing, ironing his suit, going to work, and pacing Ikebukuro like a withdrawing addict. He was down to one cigarette before he had to open the last pack. Yes, he _had_ to. But only if he smoked that one.

He spent lonely minutes contemplating it before he caught a whiff of scent--incense, coffee, cypress oil--and flicked open his lighter. As much as it made him weak, a slave to his own tics and vices, Shizuo much preferred the tang of burnt paper and tobacco to whatever Izaya had bathed himself in that day. He knew it was done on purpose, done just for him. Fragrance was supposed to evoke things; otherwise, why wear it? And why come back, after everything that happened?

Why, if not to yank Shizuo up from his park-bench and set him snorting off like a bull in heat? He hated this. He was supposed to be the one person Izaya had no control over, the unknown quantity that was to be feared and kept always at arms length. He was a beast, a brute, a bloody Frankenstein's monster, a function of his own fucked up genetics. He was supposed to be better than that.

"You." He hissed out a cloud of smoke, and liking the effect, kept it up until his cigarette was down to the filter. "You," like an angry dragon, or an old-time locomotive belching noxious clouds of coal smut. "I'm gonna snap you in haaaaaalf, Izaya-kuuuuun."

Down the alley past Westgate park, up the street, and into the yakisoba joint, where he came up short. Was he lost? What just happened? He still smelled Izaya, but he was in a restaurant, surrounded by innocent diners. No place for angry dragons or speeding trains. No wrenching doors off of hinges, no flinging people like boomerangs, no swinging street-signs just for the gigantic 'whoosh' they made. Shizuo faltered.

"Welcome, table for one? Smoking or non-smoking?"

He collected himself and drew up to his full, unstooped height. The host shrank back uncertainly.

"I'm meeting a friend," Shizuo said genteelly, and wondered why he'd been so quick to beat up that talent scout. Surely, his acting would've won him an award by now. "He said he'd be waiting for me."

Decisively, he pulled out his cell and dialed. He didn't bother pardoning himself, since the call itself wasn't important; he just listened for the answering chime, and followed it 'til he found his mark: seated nonchalantly at a booth with his cell placed dead-center on the table. Like he'd been expecting Shizuo the whole time.

"What's good, Izayaaaa? Keeping busy? How's things in Shinjuku? Heard they did some remodeling on your building recently."

Izaya made a sour face and gestured for Shizuo to have a seat. Bastard. Didn't even have the common courtesy to mewl and wet himself. "Please," he said. "Let's not cause another scene."

"It wasn't my intention," Shizuo hissed, dropping a hand to the table and looming into Izaya's personal space. "Why're you here?"

He couldn't help notice the fading bruises and the tender way Izaya winced at his volume. It stirred up a muddy cloud of propriety and regret in the pit of Shizuo's stomach--regret that he'd done it, regret that he couldn't do it again. Regret that he even wanted to, and regret that he even questioned wanting to. Confusing. He hated that almost as much as he hated Izaya's cologne.

"I like the noodles," said Izaya. "And what's your story? Did you run out of salarymen to terrorize? Were you banned from every other restaurant in town? Have you decided to make stalking me your hobby?"

Shizuo took two deep, slow breaths, before deciding the bastard wasn't worth it. He slid around the other side of the table and seated himself. "No, I've decided to make it my job," he said. "If you won't leave, then I'll just have to keep an eye on you."

He thought that seemed fair. He couldn't have his last big hurrah here, but he could still be a dick. He could always be a dick.

"You don't own this town," Izaya said dangerously. "There's no law keeping me out."

And there was no law keeping Shizuo out of Shinjuku. So what? "Mind if I smoke?" He asked pointlessly, splitting the foil on his last pack. "Since we can't fight here, the least I can do is ruin your meal."

Izaya signaled the waiter. "Two Asahi black," he said crisply. "Separate bills, please."

Shizuo took a leisurely drag of his cigarette, and made great, obvious pains to blow the smoke elsewhere. Their beers arrived in short order, along with two glasses, two coasters, and an ashtray.

"Allow me to pour," Izaya offered. "If you trust me not to poison you, that is."

Shizuo gave a snort. He trusted the man about as far as he could throw him--which, if given the chance to really follow through, and if no buildings got in the way, was close to a hundred yards. "If you wanted to, you'd just do it already." He accepted his glass without so much as looking at it, poison or no poison, and started drinking.

He wasn't much for casual threats or petty manipulations, and he wasn't here to have a conversation. Conversations with Izaya ended, about ninety-nine percent of the time, in stuff getting broken. Shizuo was man enough to admit he wanted an end to it. He also knew that Izaya knew there'd be no lunging or smashing of windows so long as they were sat here, and the least he could do was take advantage of that.

"Why are you here, really?" Izaya asked. "Let's be adult about this."

Shizuo laughed into his beer, sending up a spray of foam that landed on his fringe and speckled his glasses. "I came to beat you," he said matter-of-factly. "But I happen to know the owner. She's a real nice older lady, and I don't wanna end up trashing the place."

"Noble of you," said Izaya.

"It's also no fun drinking alone," said Shizuo, also matter-of-factly. He'd let Izaya make of that what he would. "I noticed you keep a lot of alcohol at your place. Easier than going out, huh?"

Izaya raised his glass. "It's a shame we ever got off on the wrong foot," he sighed ruminatively. "In your own heavy-handed way, you would've made an excellent informant."

"I'd rather choke and die," Shizuo growled, then took several deep, cleansing breaths and raised his glass. He was pissed, so pissed, but he was better than that. "Just drink. Don't make me change my mind."

Two beers, three, and most of a fourth passed in absolute silence--guarded at first, then awkward, then complacent. Nothing needed saying that hadn't already been said. There was nothing Izaya wanted to know about him that couldn't be gotten from other sources, either; so went beer number four, leading into five. It turned out, Izaya could drink a surprising lot when motivated properly. But so could Shizuo.

"Number seven," he announced. "Are you shamed yet, Izaya-kun?"

"You realize, you're paying for all these drinks." Izaya began cordoning off the empty cans, creating a small pyramid out of Shizuo's. "Keep yours on your side, so there's no confusion."

Shizuo waved this off with a raised vee-finger salute. "Oi, bartender-san. Two boiler-makers, please."

Izaya flopped half-way across the table and snatched Shizuo's wrist down. "What are you doing?" He warbled.

"Ordering shots."

"Don't you think you've had enough?"

"This from the alcoholic," Shizuo snorted. "Two boilermakers, please!"

"Honestly. Honestly!" Izaya gave his wrist a needling little tug. Annoying. He was so damn annoying. "I had you figured for much better taste, Shizuo-chaaan."

"Oh," said Shizuo, "I see how it's gonna be. I'm paying, so now you expect top-shelf shit. 'Zat right?" He inverted his hand and neatly pinned Izaya down amidst a shower of empty cans. "What do you want? Scotch? Single malt? Would you like me to serve you on my hands and knees? Eh?"

"Glennfidich, neat. Only a fool wastes good Whiskey by mixing it," Izaya grunted. "This one's on me."

Shizuo loomed over the hissing Izaya with what he'd intended to be steely menace, dulled albeit, and re-iterated: "two boilermakers, Asahi black and Bushmill's. Because I'm so nice, Izaya-kun, it's on me."

"Tss."

He caught a closed-mouth nod and an air-chop from the server, a big, lumpy bear of a man with two hams for fists. Probably had a hundred kilos on Shizuo. An ex-boxer, by the looks of his scars. But Shizuo had promised he'd be good. He'd be better. He'd tended bar at least long enough to know he was finished. If he'd had car-keys, they'd have been confiscated by then.

"Is that true?" Shizuo sighed and finally deigned to release Izaya's arm, noting he'd left quite a hand print afterwards. "Since when?"

"Since your last beer," the man grunted. "You're both flagged."

Izaya slumped across the table and laughed, shoulders heaving helplessly. "Flagged! What a shitty bartender you must've been, Shizu-chan. Hah!"

This would be the point where things usually got ugly, but Shizuo wasn't in a mood to argue. He shrugged and fished a bunch of crisp bills from his wallet, affixed those to the table with his empty glass, and swayed precariously to his feet. He realized what a state he was in then--about a hundred centimeters too tall, with jelly for legs--but no matter. He had less than a few blocks to walk before he'd be able to sleep it off; the same, unfortunately, wasn't true for Izaya.

"Heh, try not to fall onto the tracks and die," Shizuo mumbled, then floated out to the street in a stumbling, beery haze. "Good night. Good morning. Hope I never--see you again--"

He was just looking for a place to throw up discretely when Izaya fell in step behind him, muttering something about the last train. Whatever. Wasn't his concern. Izaya could curl up by the mailbox for all he cared. Izaya could sleep on his front stoop and get shat upon by birds. Shizuo wouldn't stop him.

"You can go sleep out by the garbage bins." Shizuo teetered and grabbed onto a very unhelpful lamp-post. "If you can...if you can get me there."

This. This was why he never drank. He was weak, this was pathetic. Why, why had he thought this was a good idea? Why with Izaya? Because. Because? He'd wanted to see how drunk the guy could get. Just how bad. How low. What sort of things would he spill, unintentionally, that Shizuo could then file away and pull out again at his leisure? Where was the limit? Would he tip over and vomit in the gutter, splattering his wingtips, while Shizuo stood back and gloated through his own crapulence?

Would he hate himself just that much more?

"My, you are a mess," Izaya purred. "Let's get you home."

Once Shizuo was done spitting and rinsing his mouth, he let Izaya take his arm and peel him away from the lamp-post before it bent and toppled over. That was nice. He might not maim him just for that. "Schadenfreude, what a wonderful way to say I...hate you...heh."

Izaya knew where he lived. They stumbled through the security gate, and Shizuo never thought to question it--Izaya knew things, it was his business to know things--he just handed over his keys and helpfully pointed out where Izaya would sleep. "Over there, by the bins."

Izaya shouldered him inside and fetched him against the vestibule wall. Surprising how much stronger he seemed when Shizuo wasn't actively trying to murder him.

"Shoes off," Izaya grunted, shoving at Shizuo until, with some fumbling, this was accomplished.

Shizuo laid a hand on the stooped back. In the dark, if he squinted and cocked his head just so, he could almost pretend Izaya was someone else, that _he_ was someone else. "Why're you doing this?"

"Why are you letting me?"

Izaya straightened. The way Shizuo was propped against the wall, their heights were near equal, not much of a leap for someone drunk enough, or insane enough to try something. A dare. A whisk of chin on cheek. Izaya laced his fingers into Shizuo's shirtfront, and sort of half-sagged into him. A smile and a laugh quickly cut off.

Their mouths met in a hot, wet crush, then slid apart. Again and again, dizzy and drowsy, then Izaya sucked back a hiss and was all business again. He shouldered Shizuo the rest of the way inside and kicking the door closed behind. They stumbled another few steps towards the bedroom and kissed again, Shizuo tangling and diving his hands under Izaya's shirt like he wanted to unmake him, Izaya gasping and tripping to keep his feet as he went, shoving all the way. Against the wall, knocking loose a framed poster, into the door-jamb with an ominous crack, then off it onto the bed.

Izaya landed above him on all fours, half-straddling one leg. "It all becomes clear now," he whispered, deliberately grinding his knee against Shizuo's crotch. "You want to fuck me, Shizu-chan."

Shizuo saw no point in belaboring the obvious, since they were half-way there already. "Yeah, so what?"

"Too much honesty, like alcohol, will get you in trouble," Izaya growled. "Look at what a mess you are."

"Yer just as bad," Shizuo groaned. He was pretty well numb from the ribs down, but there was a definite flush of interest down there, something he could work with at least. He grabbed onto Izaya's hips--lean, muscular, just his type--and tried to pull him down. "Let's do this," he whispered urgently. "Let's go nuts."

Izaya clapped a hand over his mouth and glared. "You're not exercising the best judgment right now, Shizuo. Neither of us is."

He moved to slide his knee away, and slipped, came down onto his thigh with a small gasp, and Shizuo could feel he was half-hard already. He could feel the heat coming off it, tugging him up like a magnet.

He rubbed up and lapped out at Izaya's palm. He worked a clumsy hand between his thighs and started kneading, coaxing him along. "Since when does that bother you?"

Izaya bucked up hard and slapped him away. "Since it's my body," he barked and showed he could be forceful when push came to shove. "Hate me all you want, but at least respect that!"

In the dark and so close, it was harder to see his bruises, but Shizuo knew they were there. He knew he was doubly worse for wanting to do this in light of that. But, since when did he care? Since when was anything about caring? His dick clearly didn't care, and Izaya was practically seconds from coming in his pants. Caring had nothing to do with it.

"We're so ourselves right now," Shizuo laughed, wobbling upright haphazardly, holding those hot furious hips tight against his body, that conniving little cock, hard just for him. "You wanna see me really lose it? Izaya-kun...c'mere...just come over here."

Izaya rubbed against him, accepting his lot with a soft intake of breath, so very grudging and so very near the edge. "You're not yourself," he hissed out through gritted teeth.

"But you are," Shizuo whispered. He was way past drunk, past making any kind of sense, and just painfully self-aware enough to realize it. "You wanted us to have fun together, well here's your chance."

"Ah, high school all over again," Izaya snorted. "What is this, get a little beer in you and suddenly--" His hips jerked, and he let out an angry little noise, a yell, and sank his claws into Shizuo's shoulders. "Ahh--"

"That's it." Shizuo's body moved on its own, to its own rhythm, counter to Izaya's. It was faltering, jagged, and so so good. So so worth it. For just the price of a little aggravation. "A little more...I can feel you...just a little...."

"I hate you," he rasped. "I hate you for this."

"I don't care," Shizuo breathed. He'd have his last hurrah after all. Right there in his bed, furiously humping against the seam of Izaya's tight, gray trousers, and his tight little ass. Not because he cared. Not out of spite, either. But because he was there. "You can kill me, later," he said, tripping, shambling breathlessly towards climax. Shaking loose what Izaya's punch hadn't. "Don't stop."

Izaya didn't. He kept moving, more and more erratically, until with a rough little bark, he snapped tense, grinding his wet, open mouth against the side of Shizuo's neck and the lump of his erection against Shizuo's hip.

He hurried to finish after that, coming with a full body shiver, a curdle of shame and pride pooling in the tight crush of Izaya's grip. It was over, and here came the regret. high school all over again, only without the mass casualties. "Iza--"

"Shh, let's not spoil it." He disengaged with a dizzy shrug, kissing Shizuo's cheek as he pulled away. He then leaned back and pulled something from his coat pocket. "Here. You dropped this at the restaurant."

Shizuo's cell, dangling from Izaya's little finger like a toy. He felt like he was going to be sick again. "Give that--"

"What's the magic word?" Izaya purred, and flipped the phone open. "Iza-ya-kun-please?"

Was he programming his own number in? How pathetic was he? And how pathetic was Shizuo letting him? After everything he'd just done, all his internal wrangling, it had come to this. Shizuo didn't even have the strength to get angry. He deserved this.

Izaya flipped the phone closed and tossed it into Shizuo's lap. "Sleep, my prince, try not to choke on your vomit and die." Then he left, gently shutting the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made some small edits.


	4. Bend me, Break me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shizuo's not about to let a little thing like major surgery slow him down.

Shizuo woke, the next morning, with a fulminating hangover and all manner of funk in his shorts. He'd been drunk enough to do some really regrettable shit last night, but unfortunately--or fortunately--not nearly drunk enough to forget. Even without all the present reminders: the number in his address book, the mess of his clothes, and the large, red hickey on his neck, he would've known. It would be forever burnt into his synapses. A faint perfume and warm, chaffing weight that greeted him whenever he closed his eyes.

What. The. Hell. What the hell was wrong with him? He must have lost his damn mind. Where were his fucking smokes? He was quitting, yeah, but he needed one badly before he left the apartment. Because he had to, he had to get out. He couldn't stand facing the messed bed or the dent in his couch cushions any longer, so Shizuo showered, carefully pressed his clean suit, dressed, collected his attaché, his cell, and his sunnies all in that order, and he bolted.

Tom greeted him at the restaurant counter, wearing identical shades and what looked like an identical hangover. "Shizuo," he muttered, tapping out a smoke. "It's not a Monday if we don't meet here, eh?"

"Hnn."

"That bad?"

Shizuo declined comment. His head still hurt enough that an ill-timed bout of anger might kill him, or whatever unlucky schmuck that got in his way. That bad.

"Well, today's a short day," Tom sighed. "Thank god."

Shizuo opened and closed his cell-phone at least a dozen times that evening, smoked two cigarettes, and briefly questioned whether or not he should bother quitting. He'd felt strangely untethered all day, and if not for work, if not for the guilt of doing so, he probably would have stayed in bed.

For sure, he wasn't about to go calling Izaya that night. He imagined Celty would say he was in a vulnerable state or something, and if he didn't damn well know better than to tell her about last night and how weird things were getting, she'd advise against it. How big a masochist was he? How desperate was he? Was he that damn stupid? She'd never say all that, but on principle, Shizuo needed to hear it.

If not from Celty, if not from Tom-san--sobering to realize how very few people he could count as 'friends'--from somebody.

Sundown found Shizuo slumped on the fountain ledge, dangling his phone by the strap, staring and staring at it like a cat with a new toy. Like Izaya had.

"Is that a new cell?"

Shizuo snapped it up into his palm. Kadota smiled down at him, and Shizuo briefly considered telling him he was tempted. He was on the ledge, and he needed to be talked down from doing something foolish. He needed help.

Kadota cocked his head and brushed up to the fountain ledge, but didn't sit. "How bad is it?"

"I'll live," Shizuo muttered, then went back to dangling his phone. Suddenly, his health was everyone's business. How was he holding up, so far? Had he started the pills? Were they working yet? How was his strength? What would happen if he tried to lift that newspaper box?

Not a week had gone by, and he was already well sick of it. Screw help. He just wanted to sit and be left alone for a while. Was that honestly so much to ask?

Kadota slipped a hand underneath his and gently stilled it. "Can we talk someplace private?" He asked. "Or would you rather have your emotional display right here?"

Shizuo jerked his hand away and decisively shoved the phone back in his pocket. "Emotional?" He snorted. "Do you see me breaking stuff?"

"That is a new cell, isn't it?"

"I was due for an upgrade," Shizuo muttered, slumping. He hated that he was that damn predictable. "Coulda been worse." He was still sore from the newspaper box, and pissed that he couldn't let on. He was supposed to be better. If it wasn't the tumor, it was all him, and the pills were pointless.

Kadota looked quickly askance, then back at Shizuo. "Either way, let's go somewhere more private."

Shizuo laughed and reached abortively for a pack of cigarettes. No. Not yet. "Thought I wasn't your type."

That got a nice twitch out of him. "If I had a type," Kadota grumbled. "You're definitely not it. Too complicated."

"I'm complicated?" Shizuo stood with a huff and followed Kadota deeper into the park, to a low retaining wall shaded by trees. "Huh."

Kadota sat there and reached into his jacket. "Mind if I smoke?"

Shizuo shrugged and jammed his own hands into his pockets. "What would you do?" He asked conversationally. "If there were no consequences, no tomorrow."

"Go to Brazil, get married, jump from a plane," Kadota ticked off, lit his smoke, then continued. "Ride a bull, eat fugu, wear a pink shirt, record a piece of music, and...I don't know, but probably something spontaneous."

Shizuo tipped back and watched the sky. "What's stopping you from doing all that now?" He wondered. "If you think about it, anything could happen. Between now and tomorrow, you could get run over by a bus. A gas main could explode. You could choke on a piece of candy."

"Hn," Kadota laughed. "And I could get arrested painting my initials, ten meters high, on the front of the Seibu building, or slip and plummet to my death."

"Be worth it, though."

Kadota shrugged. "I suppose. If it's worth the thrill, it's worth dying for. Why not take the risk?"

Because, Shizuo thought. Because there was no such thing as a risk worth dying for. Because he was just as full of excuses as the next sorry bastard. Because he and Kadota were thinking very different things.

"Propriety is overrated," Kadota added. "Guilt is something we internalize to keep us from stepping out of line. As far as I know, there's no law against being happy. Just use a condom, and to hell with whatever anyone else thinks."

Shizuo looked quickly askance.

Kadota smiled.

"Son of a bitch," Shizuo gritted his teeth and started pacing. Be good, he reminded himself, don't kill the messenger. Don't punch the messenger, or launch him into the fountain. Don't lose control. "That's what I hate. That's what I hate about him. About this!"

"Do you really?"

"I sure as hell don't like him. I never did. Never. Never!"

"Like isn't necessary," Kadota said, then stood. "The fact is, he's been after you for years. You'd have to be blind not to have noticed."

Blind, or in denial. Or self-preservation kept him from falling for it. Either way, that ship had sailed with Izaya straddling the helm. What did he have left to lose?

His self-respect? Never existed. His temper? Well, he'd already given Izaya a concussion; he'd already destroyed one newspaper box; he'd taken a nice chunk out of a building or two. What was left? Izaya's life? Drugs or no drugs, there was still a chance he could get seriously pissed and do something he couldn't take back. It wouldn't even matter if he meant it or not.

"Not worth it," Shizuo muttered. "Thirty minutes of sweating and shoving for two seconds of gratification, and then what? Like I'd be happy then? Shit--"

"You could certainly stand to get laid," Kadota said, then started backing slowly away, hands in pockets, like he'd just dropped a live grenade. "Don't knock those two seconds of gratification, Shizuo. With the right person, it's dynamite."

The thing was, he wasn't wrong--about the getting laid part. For however long, whether a minute or thirty, there was a moment back there where he hadn't felt like launching Izaya off the overpass. It had been wondrous. To think of it still made Shizuo's knees go weak. Which was why he didn't run Kadota down and slap him silly with that damn ugly hat of his. He just dropped onto the ledge with his head in his hands and prayed for god to strike them both down. Save him the trouble.

Kadota stopped backing off and grinned. "If I'm wrong, I'll check at least one thing off my list. If I'm right, I'll check off two."

"Yeah?" Shizuo laughed. "Start by jumping out of a plane. Asshole."

* * *

He kept his shirt on the next time they fucked.

It was stupid, his feeling insecure about the fact of his tumors or his tits--feeling possessive of them, his tumors, no-one else's--feeling like it even mattered whether or not he looked vulnerable and imperfect during sex. Because it didn't matter. There was no cancer. There was no dotted line. There was just Shizuo, his hands, his legs, his cock, and his crisp white shirt rucked between his belly and Izaya's hips.

Izaya pinned over the back of his couch, naked and ready and begging for him. No kissing, no lube, no messing around. "Come on, before I go soft."

"This isn't a grudge-fuck," Shizuo murmured, drooling copiously into his palm. "It's gonna hurt if I--"

"Just do it." He arched jaggedly, snarling. "Do it, and don't stop."

He hissed and he moaned and he threatened, and Shizuo hauled his hips back hard, ground his grievances out into that tight little ass, two quick pushes, and showed him what a wounded animal could really do. What a monster he was. This was how he liked to fuck. No kissing, no lube, no messing around. Just fucking the way Izaya had fucked with him for years. Honesty at its finest.

Maybe the only real honesty he'd ever get out of him. A wail like he was dying, a shudder that shook him from inside out. "Huuuurts--aaahhh--you fucker! Nnnn--"

"Twisted," Shizuo rasped, moving the couch with each thrust, forcing Izaya to stretch, to bend deeper. "You're twisted--"

Izaya laughed and yelped and pushed back, raked a hand up his naked thigh, up under the hem of his shirt, into the sweating surging space between them. Shizuo let him keep it there. The stomach was neutral territory, it was safe. It was Izaya being curious, wanting to feel Shizuo's weight and pressure that much more, and that gave him a jolt, made the fucking that much better.

So much better than the first time. If ever his doubts needed erasing--if there was still a shred of him that still needed convincing.

"Shizu--oh--"

"Stop--talking--stop!" He was close. So close, it was hard getting the words out, harder keeping the act up. Hard to do anything but clutch tightly, thrust, grind, pepper the room with Izaya's barks and the urgent slap of skin on sweaty skin. His own guilty breathing.

"Huuurts," Izaya moaned. "I love it when you hurt me...."

"Hahhh!" Shizuo shuddered and came. Like flipping a switch, zero-to-sixty in point-five seconds, he went from toppest fucking top in all of Ikebukuro to shattered fucking mess; jerking and chafing his chest against Izaya's back, too close, too close to kissing. He mouthed at the smooth shoulder, the pale neck. Forgetting, for one hot minute, what this was, and who Izaya was. Izaya, who he hated. The machinating fucker who sliced him open and made him bleed. Who made him honest. Honestly afraid.

Oh, it was good. It was too damn good the way Izaya moaned and pulsed around him; the way he quivered and thrust into Shizuo's hand; the way he muffled his shouts by biting the couch cushions. The way he worked at it, coming like he wanted to kill, like he wanted to crush Shizuo into powder. It was dynamite.

Afterwards, Shizuo sat slumped on the sofa while Izaya cleaned and dressed himself. He lit a cigarette, because it was his damned apartment and he'd smoke in it if he wanted to, and popped open a beer.

"You really do have a closet full of bartender uniforms," he heard Izaya laugh.

"Get out," he answered flatly.

"Well, if you didn't want me snooping, why not pick a hotel?" He appeared in the doorway, fully clothed, cheerfully twirling a bow-tie around his little finger. "The expression 'don't shit where you eat' would--"

"Get the fuck out."

There went another piece of Shizuo's clothing, never to be replaced; and there went Orihara Izaya, best sober lay of his life, taunting him with all the sex they had yet to have.

* * *

Shizuo was allowed to go home the same night after his surgery.

He'd told Celty not to wait for him, but promised he'd have them call her as soon as he was cleared for discharge, which they pretty much had to do once he showed them he could walk. He wouldn't leave A.M.A., but stood at the admission desk until they caved. Not within the standards of care, the night nurse bleated, but Shizuo's winning smile swayed her--that and the u-bend he'd put in his I.V. pole.

They fetched him a wheelchair right quick after that, and all but begged Celty to take him off their hands.

Because he had fresh sutures and drains in place, he couldn't sit comfortably riding pillion, and he was too dopey to hold himself up in front. Celty tucked him into the sidecar with a helmet, and a spare coat draped loosely around his shoulders. He remembered complaining about the ride more than he remembered the ride itself. He felt ridiculous, he looked ridiculous, but it was for his safety. Celty wouldn't allow anything to happen to him.

She'd never forgive herself!

"Ah," Shizuo sighed. He felt the sedatives start to wear off as they pulled into the street, and the queasiness came close behind. By the time they made it to Shinra's, he'd had enough, and leaned over to vomit off the side.

Celty's hands fluttered anxiously. She couldn't hold the PDA and hold onto Shizuo's shoulders at the same time, so there was no speaking. All she could do was soothe wordlessly until he'd finished heaving, and then she'd ask if he was all right.

"M'sorry," Shizuo slurred. "Got some on yer bike."

That was okay. It would wash off, she said. Here, lean on me.

They'd made up the guest bed for him. He remembered being helped into it, then waking up in the dark. He drifted in and out of sleep for most of the night after that, unused to lying on his back, keenly aware that something had been done to him. The enormity of it wouldn't hit him for a while, though; not until after he'd managed to shuffle back from the water-closet, and his hand drifted up to his chest.

It was done. He had no idea what it would look like. He just knew it was done, he'd come through it alive.

He laid back down and cried.

The next few days were easier. He got used to changing the bandages and checking the drains himself, used to seeing his incisions, used to the way things felt. The numbness could last a while, they said, but it wasn't permanent. He was to do his stretches and go about his life as usual--hah! He was not to lift anything heavier than a gallon of milk--double hah! When in doubt, he should not hesitate to ask for help.

"Tom-san, how much would you say this guy weighs?"

He was fine and handling things well. As soon as everything healed, he'd start targeted radiation treatments, x times per week, for x months, as an outpatient. He would not miss much work, and his life would continue as normal. Better than normal, once the primary tumor started to shrink; and it would, they promised. Shizuo was lucky. It made him want to puke, just how lucky he was.

He'd flipped a coin, and now he got to live. He got to choose.

He got to call Kadota and tell him to jump from a fucking plane.

The day his drains came out, someone left an artfully arranged bouquet of dead flowers on his doorstep; morose, cliché, and in poor taste. Izaya's doing, for sure. There was no note and no card, but Shizuo felt his hackles raise and he just knew. Tomorrow there would be a dead beetle laid neatly on his pillow, then a series of filthy, deliberately misspelled messages in his in-box. Naked pictures sent to his phone during work. A full can of beer poured over his head from his building's fire-escape, and another newspaper box sacrificed as a human fly-swatter.

He was lucky. So very lucky.

* * *

He kept his shirt on the next time. He was careful not to let Izaya touch his chest or his rib-cage, careful in orchestrating his hands, how close he got. Careful not to make it obvious, and careful not to make it an issue, though it was clear Izaya knew.

Outside of the context they were even talking to one another, touching one another without causing grievous harm, he did not treat Shizuo differently. But he knew. His eyes showed it with gleaming curiosity. He pressed Shizuo to the couch with one knee and briskly whipped off his belt, said if he felt teeth, he'd slice off Shizuo's ear. And that was him being nice.

Shizuo let him keep the knife. Let him trace the handle and the back of the blade lovingly along his cheeks, down his neck, under the collar of his shirt while he stroked and licked and played with the hard flesh of Izaya's dick. He wasn't intimidated by threats, and this wasn't actually the weirdest thing he'd been asked to do. He took his time, teased, got Izaya good and impatient, pissed him off more than anything, and enjoyed the hell out of it.

Izaya wouldn't complain so long as he got his dick sucked, but he'd let Shizuo know in small ways not to push things. He grabbed a handful of Shizuo's hair and deliberately sliced the top button from his shirt. "Ahh, clumsy me," he hissed.

Shizuo glared and gave him a warning squeeze before he resumed his efforts. Good art took time and patience. Izaya had to see that.

Another button pinged gently from the tip of his blade, widening the gap, baring more of Shizuo's angry chest. Izaya stopped talking and just watched him then, panting, eyes shuttered and fluttering. He twitched, thrust a little more insistently, and this time Shizuo let him. He palmed Izaya's ass and slid his pants further down, took him all in. A third button went ping, and Shizuo took hold of his wrist, guided the blade up his throat, up against his earlobe and squeezed.

"Ung--" Izaya's tendons leaped out against his grip. "Son of a bitch--"

He was swelling, surging, big, dark pupils fixed on Shizuo's face; watching himself be watched as he came, holding spasticly onto Shizuo's hair for support. Groaning through his teeth. He was a goner by that point, dropping the knife with a tight little spasm, a wave of hot incoordination that Shizuo felt all the way down to his balls, the tips of his fingers and toes.

He'd pay for that. As soon as he felt Izaya relax, as soon as he let go, Izaya went live-wire crazy on him, drove down with his knee and tried to grab Shizuo by the throat. Shizuo batted his hand aside, then his other before he could reach for the knife, and tumbled him backwards onto the couch.

Izaya laughed wildly and tucked his knees, which at least facilitated Shizuo yanking his pants off, then lay back petulantly with his thighs splayed, Shizuo hanging over him rasping, red-faced, and hard as hell.

"I was just trying to make things interesting," Izaya huffed, wriggling a little against the cushions. His eyes trailed down Shizuo's throat, his gaping shirtfront and his angry chest, his cock, and the slim blades of his thighs. He frowned delicately and started to curl upright. "Now look what you've gone and done."

"Huh?"

"You're kneeling on my knife."

Shizuo backed off, floundering. The knife was jammed about two centimeters deep in his calf; stung a little once he thought about it, but didn't look too bad. He reached down to yank it out.

"Tch, you do that, it's going to bleed all over the place!"

Shizuo grabbed Izaya's discarded shirt and wadded it up. "Who asked you to bring it out in the first place," he grunted, quickly tugging out and tossing the now bloodied knife onto his coffee table. "Leave it!"

Izaya kicked his pants off and levered away from the couch. "I'm not a dog," he said acerbically, sauntering past the kitchenette, towards the bedroom. "Tell me where you keep the bandages."

"There's a first-aide kit in the bathroom--but I don't want you snooping!" Shizuo barked at the retreating back, hobbling after with Izaya's shirt (another one ruined) clutched to his leg, and a nuclear hard-on bobbing undeterred in front of him. "Don't make me handcuff you somewhere."

Izaya popped his glossy head out of the bathroom. "Handcuff?"

Shizuo just snatched a roll of gauze from his hand and jerked him out into the hall. "Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you, ya perv?"

"Me?" Izaya laughed and backed his way through the bedroom door, hips swaying. "I'm not the one bleeding with an erection."

Shizuo finished tying off his bandage and straightened up, grinning. "We can change that," he said.

He'd scooped Izaya up and dropped him onto the bed. Would've tackled him across the room and through a wall if he could, but that part of him was past. Shizuo was all about business now, pinning Izaya on his belly and slowly grinding him into the mattress.

"You want it?" Shizuo hissed, stroking out a long shudder. "Say it. Say you want my cock, Izaya."

Izaya laughed breathlessly and tried to twist under him. "Stop, if you're just going to be cliché about it."

Shizuo hauled him back by the hips. "I'll be as cliché as I want," he said, "If you don't like it, go find someone else to fuck." He parted the pale buttocks and drooled out a long streamer of spit, let it trail down his crease before rubbing it in.

Izaya laughed some more, shuddering beneath his hands. "Oh, but it's so much fun watching you abase yourself."

Shizuo bent down and applied his mouth. He'd make Izaya eat those words, one moan at a time. He'd break him slowly and make him beg for it; and fuck him if he couldn't take a little poetry. Here was a tender bud, a flower, and one by one, Shizuo was going to knock all the petals off.

On all fours, then kneeling against the headboard, then hauled onto his lap reverse cowboy, he fucked the words out of Izaya's mouth until there was nothing left but nonsense. Empty syllables, animal grunts. He was honest when he couldn't talk, and honest when they fucked. He spelled out 'more' and 'faster' with his hands, the angle of his hips, the speed of his strokes, the inner working of his muscles.

He hated Shizuo, but loved what Shizuo did to him.

When he came, he moved like he'd been electrified, almost knocking his head against the wall before Shizuo stopped him; and for as long as it took the aftershocks to die down, Izaya dropped the act. Maybe Izaya _was_ the act, and that was the thing that pissed Shizuo off most. Maybe Shizuo was the problem after all, and Izaya only put up with him as long as he got his dick sucked, as long as he got his ass serviced. As long as Shizuo made him come.

He lay quiet afterwards, and let Shizuo's mouth roam over his shoulder, his neck, his cheek, before stopping him with a soft, bitten back hiss.

"Don't like that," he muttered. "You're drooling."

Shizuo rolled off of him. He stripped the spent condom and dropped it into the wastebasket, then began scanning around for some cigarettes. The whole thing was a mess, best not rationalized until he had time and space to think straight.

"What's wrong, Shizu-chan? Not gonna tell me to get out?"

Finally, Shizuo stood. "Do what you want, I don't care."

He heard Izaya shift. "Oh, sour grapes," he cooed. "Brush your teeth, maybe I'll kiss it and make it all better."

Shizuo kicked the bed behind him. It skidded an unsatisfying few feet, then stopped before colliding with or damaging anything. He was wrong: Izaya was Izaya, and Shizuo was a wreck. No rationalization needed.


	5. Playmate o Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you can't scream, then laugh. If you can't laugh, make someone else laugh instead.

He told himself there wouldn't be a third time. No handies, no blow-jobs, no conciliatory beer before or after, (cold aluminum pressed to his cheek in a mockery of a kiss), no second round, and Shizuo wouldn't bottom for him. No. No matter how good it felt. No matter how he argued and wrangled with himself. Because he looked stupid on his back; because he was so much taller than Izaya; so much leg to get in the way; so much contortion and geometry, and hiking things up. Because they'd already established roles. Because he was too proud. Because.

Because he wanted it, and that just wouldn't stand. Not without a show of reluctance, at least. Not without some fraught negotiation involving Izaya's spit slicked fingers and the distracting scrape of teeth along his neck. Though it wasn't his first time, and Izaya wasn't dumb enough to be fooled by any means, it had been a while. Too long.

"Ahh--ahh!!"

"Like that, huh?" Izaya panted. "You like my conniving little cock, Shizu-chan?"

Bastard. If he didn't fuck like a damn tiger, he'd have been on the street before his next breath.

"Ng, just--shut up."

What was self-respect anyway? What was guilt, other than something he'd internalized to keep himself in line? Sex was natural, and wanting it was human. He'd be an idiot to deny himself that, just because society had issues. Just because he had issues. Maybe no-one would ever love him, but as long as it felt good--as long as Izaya fucked him like that, like he was the best in the world, like he couldn't get anything better--he could fool himself.

After he'd come, was another story altogether.

"You can get out now." Shizuo rolled over and began fumbling around his nightstand for a cigarette.

Izaya trailed a fingertip up the back of his thigh. "No good night kiss?"

"Out."

Izaya poked him in the ass, where he was still nice and tender. "Hmmm," he murmured appreciatively. "Looks like you missed a spot."

Shizuo gave him an abortive shove, then tried to twist away. "Dunno what you're talking about."

He wanted Izaya out, and quickly, because the longer he stayed, the longer Shizuo had to reign in his temper. The longer he did that, the worse he felt, and so on. A negative feedback loop that twisted and turned in on itself, swallowing its own poisonous tail ad infinitum like a cancer.

He hated that, more than he thought he hated Izaya any more.

"You shave back there," Izaya deadpanned, swinging a leg over Shizuo's waist and pouncing, catching him mid-twist and pinning his hands by his head.

"Yeah, so," he muttered around the cigarette; his last, perhaps. He'd stopped counting, stopped anticipating the next. Once he ran out, that was it. No more. "I'm hairy. It'd look bad if I didn't."

"You're saying it doesn't look bad now." Izaya plucked the cigarette from his lips and bent down to kiss him. Somehow, that was all right. It was on his terms, so it was allowed.

Shizuo was fine with that, kissing he could do, but you just didn't mess with a man's tobacco. He snatched it back and lit it while Izaya sat and hovered over him, then blew a thin stream of smoke past his face. "Now--"

Izaya cut him off with a sneeze.

"Ugh. Off!"

"Oh, please. I come in your mouth and this you get all touchy over?"

Shizuo sat up, dumping him back on his ass. "It's a matter of respect," he grumbled, and turned around to reach for the ash-tray. "Just cover your mouth next time."

Stupid. He shouldn't have said that, like there'd even be a next time.

Izaya's weight shifted, then left the bed. "I'll be going then," he said briskly, then began hunting around for his clothes. "Just so you know, smoking makes your come taste terrible."

Shizuo launched up and flipped the bed over, frame and all. By that time, Izaya had already ducked out and dashed blithely away, unharmed, and Shizuo was left lying on the floor, a ball of strained and screaming muscles. Too shocked to yell. Too proud to call for help. Too long. It'd been too long since he'd felt pain that bad. He'd almost managed to forget.

No good. This was no good, and it had to stop. Either Shizuo learned to control himself better, or stopped playing around where he damned well knew he shouldn't.

Trust Shinra to twig. Trust him not to know when to keep his mouth shut, either.

"Something's bothering you," he said.

"Oh," Shizuo muttered. "Didn't sleep much last night."

"Why not? Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. Just broke the bed is all, spent the night on my couch." After relocating his left shoulder, that was.

"Wow," Shinra laughed. "What were you doing that you broke the--"

Shizuo's hand spasmed around his tea-cup, crushing it in a wet explosion of shards.

No. He didn't want to talk about Izaya. Didn't want to think about him. He had to deal with him, and that was enough.

He'd never wanted to think he was that pathetic, that he'd fallen so low. And yet. There he was, and there Izaya was that same night, and it was becoming a routine. Like a last smoke before bedtime. A necessary evil that wasn't doing his health or his self-esteem any good. But he'd never go so far as to call it a vice.

He did not need Izaya the way he needed cigarettes, coffee or booze. He did not need aggravation. He did not need to apologize for destroying public property. He did not need to worry about keeping his job. Those were not things he needed, they were things he dealt with. Izaya, and all the things he brought along with him, the petulant little frowns, the games, the verbal abuse, was something he dealt with.

No question why, but a whole boatload of rationalization.

He was a masochist and he enjoyed suffering. He enjoyed the contemptible familiarity they had. The sex was amazing. It made his neighbors hate him for entirely justified reasons. It made sense. He and Izaya deserved each other, were obligated to each other; because Shizuo kept Izaya in check, and Izaya kept Shizuo's anger focused somewhere safe. Because Izaya knew how to break him. Because he was broken, and so was Izaya, and they'd each found the one perfectly fucked up person who wouldn't give a shit and spoil it for the other. That was why. But mostly, it was the sex.

Even when it wasn't great, wasn't explosive, even if the medication dampened his mood, at least it was there. Always a phone-call or ill-timed prank or snitty remark away.

Izaya didn't love him--he didn't even like him--and that was why it worked. Why Shizuo told himself it worked.

* * *

"What are you so afraid of?" Izaya whispered. "You think it matters to me? You think I care?"

He had Shizuo shackled to the headboard, ankles cuffed to a spreader bar, naked from the waist down, pinned by the hips. Bit by bit, he teased up the hem of Shizuo's tee-shirt, following the path of his newly awakened nerve endings with sure fingers, lighting him from the inside out. Testing him until he broke.

"Cold!"

Izaya pushed it, he was always pushing it, grinding sharply against his hipbones, clasping hot thighs around his waist, thumbing the borders of his scars. "Hmm, I forget, Shizu-chan. Does cold mean stop? Or does hot?"

"It means stop, you fucker!"

"Shhhsh." Izaya levered forward, away from Shizuo's cock, and bent to kiss the side of his jaw. He slid his hands back down Shizuo's ribs, down his belly. "Better?"

Shizuo jerked at the cuffs, testing their give with a frightening creak. He squeezed his eyes shut and blew out, tried to relax, tried not to arch up and break free when Izaya's hands slowly slid back up, when the moist heat of his breath and his mouth followed. "Warmer," he hissed.

Diagonally from the point of his rib-cage, across his breast-bone, rising and sinking with every rushing gasp, Izaya licked and sucked and scraped his burning skin. He teased his nipples with harsh fingertips, the real and the fake, over and over until wires crossed and shorted--pleasure, pain, whiteout--until Shizuo couldn't take it any more.

"Cold, cold! Stop!"

"Oh, but I was getting such an amazing reaction."

"I swear to god I'ma rip you apart...."

Izaya shifted deliberately and brushed back against his cock. He angled his hips back, his weight forward, skin hot and smooth and just not enough. He lifted his hands, then dropped them heavily onto the tops of the wrist shackles, slim body stretched and back-lit. "I can undo these," he offered. "Just say the word."

"Fuck. You."

He could break free easily, himself, but that wasn't the point. Shizuo liked seeing Izaya like this, like watching his expression war with itself: smug satisfaction against doubt, against fear, against self-recrimination, against lust. He liked that honesty, and he liked knowing he'd brought it out.

"Stubborn," Izaya said with a pout. "These weren't easy to come by, you know." He frowned sharply and jerked up on Shizuo's wrists. "I did it for you, Shizu-chan. You have no idea the kind of questions it might've raised."

Shizuo wriggled underneath him. "Really. Like the giant sized dildo on your nightstand wouldn't raise more."

"That one's just for show," he said lightly, reaching back to give Shizuo a squeeze. "I tend to prefer a more compact model for every day."

"How'd you like me to fuck you with that thing, Izaya? I could hit you from both ends, that wa--" He broke off, muffled and grinning into the skin of Izaya's palm.

"Manners," Izaya hissed. "I told you, I don't like gutter talk."

"You do," Shizuo snarled into his hand, pulling his lips back to nip, suckle, and drool. "You love it when I say exactly what I'm gonna do. When I say I'm gonna--mmf--come in your hair. You love it. Watch, you should see how your eyes roll back. You'd like me to piss on you, wouldn't you?"

Izaya lifted his hand away, carefully wiped the drool off on Shizuo's shirt, then hauled back and slapped him across the face. Hard, too. Not outside the rules, but he'd pay for it.

"Unh," Shizuo jerked up and nearly separated his shoulder trying to stop himself. "Ahh, you fucker!"

Izaya narrowed his eyes coolly. "I want you to turn over," he whispered, then unbuckled one of the straps. "As much as I love seeing your face like this, it makes it hard to reach."

"Say that again," Shizuo snickered. He let his hand fall free, then reached up to flick a teasing slap across Izaya's cheek. He was always so much gentler about it, but he still left marks. Reminders. This tiger still had claws.

Izaya snatched his wrist up, squeezed until the bones creaked, then unbuckled the other cuff. "Turn over, kneel," he commanded, cock flinching up at his belly as he dismounted. He was primed, muscles shivering. "I've let you run the show for too long, Shizu-chan. It's time you learned your place."

Shizuo twisted onto his stomach, then pulled himself up to kneel against the headboard, stifling more snickers as Izaya leaned--with much stretching and reaching--across his back to re-fasten the cuffs. "Oi, don't hurt yourself," he teased.

Izaya slid back and laid a stinging slap across his left thigh, then another over the same spot. His hand whistled before it hit, again, and again, warming Shizuo's skin, jerking his back straight. Then it stopped, and Izaya was stretched across his back again, a hot kiss of skin on skin, reaching to drag fingernails up his arms, teeth over his shoulder.

"Would you like me to gag you?" He clamped his hand over Shizuo's mouth again, hissing "I could leave you like this" into his ear. "I could gag you, come onto your back, and leave you like this."

He reached down and slapped Shizuo's cock against his belly.

Shizuo jerked up with an embarrassingly loud groan, hauled on the cuffs until he heard something metal give way. A little more pressure, and the headboard shifted, gave him slack. He tried to spread himself and rub back against Izaya's cock, tried to turn his head aside and kiss, bite, snarl.

"Patience," Izaya growled, slipping a hand under Shizuo's chin. He gave his cock another lazy slap, ground a shivering little thrust against his ass, then pulled back. "You know how you look right now, Shizu-chan?"

He felt Izaya's weight shift, dipping the mattress behind him; then, there was a soft, plastic click.

"Stay like that," Izaya snickered, and then came the flash. "Beautiful, just beautiful!"

"The hell--did you just--"

Izaya stretched himself indolently across Shizuo's back, brushed the hair from his nape and kissed him there. "Would you like to see?" He purred, and held the phone out at arms length over Shizuo's shocked face. He snapped another quick photo. "Not too flattering, I admit. But it has a certain naive charm--"

More pressure, and Shizuo felt something grate and give. It was his shoulder, and he was an idiot. He let out a broken yell and lunged to push back the other way, banging his head into the wall, gripping the headboard and trying to focus through it. Sparks across his vision, a dull roaring in his ears, and someone trying to saw his arm off with piano wire. Not dislocated, but sprained. All his own doing, because he had to be stubborn.

He felt Izaya behind him, and as more of the sparks cleared, and the roaring in his ears dulled, he heard a snippy little 'idiot' and felt the left shackle go loose.

Shizuo used that opportunity, before Izaya could snatch down his wrist, to grab and turn and pin him underneath. Ignored the pain and shoved him up against the rickety headboard, bit on him, kissed on him, ground down on him until he got the idea and quit trying to claw Shizuo's skin off.

"All right, this works too," Izaya gasped, sinking down to better arrange himself, while Shizuo fumbled for a condom, then fumbled to unhitch his ankles.

It was work getting there, and Izaya had to help him, hold his hips and come up to meet him. But it was worth it. Worth any amount of pain. He was primed, ready, levering and rocking, he sank back, fucking himself with deep rhythmic strokes, slamming both palms to the wall and watching Izaya's face twist.

"Ahh! Shit!" He bucked up sharply, grabbed at Shizuo's waist, and came in a wave of grinding spasms. "Aaaahhhh!"

Beautiful, Shizuo thought. No one had ever looked like that with him. So raw, so helpless, so angry. He loved it and hated himself, hated, hated, hated himself. He was helpless. Hopeless. He was coming, crashing out on those sharp hips, on that wickedly curved dick, tenderly stroking himself and holding Izaya still. Holding on as long as he could. Because he knew what would happen once it was over.

Once better sense prevailed.

He shifted his weight a bit to be sure he hadn't broken anything--like Izaya's spine--then leaned back, grabbed the phone, and snapped a picture of his slack, drooling face. Caught him at that most perfect second before his brows knit and he grimaced sourly at the mess Shizuo had made all over his chest, at the sight of his own damning expression mirrored back at him.

"I hate you," he wheezed.

Shizuo reached down and lightly slapped his cheek again. "I love you too," he said, dismounting with a brisk shrug, cupping himself in one hand and his phone in the other. "You've got five minutes to get out."

Izaya scowled and rolled up to his knees. He caught Shizuo by the side of the bed, a lightning fast surge, smacked bodily into him and kissed his mouth raw. Kissed him angrily, spitefully, with his t-shirt twisted in twin handfuls up to his armpits.

"Four minutes," Shizuo warned.

Izaya yanked hard on the shirt and kissed him again. "I hate you," he spat, shoving, kissing, shoving some more.

"I heard you the first time," Shizuo said. The first time, the second time, the third time, ad infinitum. He backed off, kissing, taunting, knowing he'd crossed the line. "You hate me so much, get out. Or you wanna go again?"

Izaya bit him. Hard enough to bruise, if not draw blood, then kissed him again. He was off the bed now, pale and stiff with fury, almost giddy with it. "Always the martyr," he hissed, shoving away. "I do so hate it when we fight."

Shizuo laughed harshly at that. "Liar," he said, but the word lacked any of its usual punch.

"I'm a liar," Izaya said, "and you always tell the truth."

It had probably been more than five minutes, and neither of them had moved. The headboard had not fixed itself, and Shizuo's t-shirt wasn't getting any less ruined the more he worried at it. All he had to do was lunge, leap, break something and put the fear into him, chase Izaya the hell out so he could have a little peace. The longer he stood, though, the longer Shizuo had to look at him, the harder it got to even think.

"Why is it," Izaya mused. "You're always so quick to chase me off."

Six minutes. Maybe seven. Shizuo was amazed he'd held out this long. He loomed up over Izaya and silently fumed at him a moment. His strength may not be what it used to be, but he could still do damage if he wanted.

Izaya grabbed the hem of Shizuo's shirt from his worrying fingers, and jammed both fists against his ribcage. "It's because I scare you," he murmured. "I'm a delicate little flower, and you're an enormous beast, and you're soooo afraid of crushing me. So, so, afraid." He shoved a little, with just his ordinary human strength, and set Shizuo swaying. "Is this how it is with all your lovers?"

Shizuo swallowed and dropped his head. "No," he muttered. "Them, I usually sleep with once."

"I see. That must make me special," said Izaya. "Honestly, Shizu-chan. How do you not choke on your own bullshit?"

Shizuo gave him a shove. Light, all things considered. He sent him briefly sprawling, but didn't knock him flat. "You hate me," he said, low and warning like. "So why should you care?"

"Why should _you_ care whether I hate you or not?" Izaya spat. "Something you maybe should've considered before fucking me. Or does your martyrdom run that deep?"

He should've kicked him out for that. He'd have been totally justified and in the right. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed and quietly refrained from punting Izaya, naked, out into the street. "Why come back?" He asked. "My come tastes horrible, and everything about me offends you. So you must be the real martyr, eh, Izaya."

Izaya sniffed and turned his head away. "I lied."

He proved it several minutes later, after Shizuo finally got tired of chasing him.

"To be honest," he sighed against Shizuo's stomach, "half the fun is in getting you riled up."

Shizuo lifted a scraped hand and rifled his hair. "And the other half?"

"Getting to do it aaaall over again."

* * *

He wasn't surprised at the eviction notice. Honestly, Shizuo wondered what had taken them so long.

"So, I've got two weeks before I'm out in the street," he laughed, and raised his coffee can in a toast.

Celty wordlessly clinked her PDA against it, then tapped out a sigh. Fuuuu....

"It's fine," said Shizuo, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I was thinking about moving soon, anyway."

A brisk wind ruffled the leaves overhead, and a few large white clouds skirted by, casting precipitous shadows across the pavement. Flocks of uniformed high school students, like anxious blue geese, spilled across the street and scattered into shops and cafés, into the park. A few spotted Celty and waved. A few just stared.

Celty's body curved into a frown. You're not leaving Ikebukuro, are you?

"Nah." But he was considering a little jaunt down to Shinjuku that night--he owed Izaya a beer and a split lip. He'd already written off the security deposit, so he wouldn't bring that up. He wouldn't bring up the bed, the lamp, the closet door, or the wall, either.

Pettiness and passive aggression weren't Shizuo's style, really.

Celty knew when he was up to no good. It was the way his eyes lit up, she said, like a kid at Christmas.

"Don't be stupid," he smirked, lacing his fingers together between his knees. He was perfectly well behaved, and not at all thinking about new and creative ways to make Izaya squirm. Make him angry. Oh that was the best. When Izaya got truly furious, the little vein in his forehead popped out, and--

You're giggling, Celty teased. Heh-heh-heh...

Shizuo snorted coffee.

She shoved the PDA in his face--Ah! Now you're laughing at me! You are so immature, I don't even--and he forgot about Izaya for the moment, forgot about the eviction, and lost his head.

"Celty--" he cackled, rolling about the ledge of the fountain, fending off a playful slap or two. "Celty, no! Ah-hah-hah!"

You're going to fall in, she warned. I'll laugh when you do!

That'd be brilliant, Shizuo thought, but he wasn't about to run home and change clothes. "I'll behave," he promised, and wound down with a long sigh. "No hitting. We don't hit."

The fountain ledge was just wide enough to accommodate his lanky self, and the cool stone felt so soothing against his back. He lay there for a long stretch, while Celty considerately said nothing, and rested. He did a lot of that lately. The day after a treatment was usually the worst, but more and more, the fatigue lingered until he forgot he'd ever felt anything but tired.

If people wanted to stare, they'd stare. If they wanted to avert their eyes and pretend there was nothing at all strange going on, there was nothing Shizuo could do to stop them. Either way, it didn't matter.

He sat up and patted his vest pocket. Right. No more cigarettes. He'd forgotten already. "Do you ever miss not being able laugh?" He asked.

Celty shrugged. What is laughter? Where do you feel it most?

His belly, he supposed, or his chest. The places that ached most when he couldn't let it out. When he had to keep his crying silent, it was like being punched or kicked. "Doesn't it hurt?" He muttered. "Sometimes you just wanna--scream, and you can't."

Ah, she sighed. If you can't scream, then laugh. If you can't cry....

"Huh," he chuckled wanly. "If you can't laugh?"

Make someone else laugh, instead.

Shizuo smiled.

Yeah, he was a viking at making people laugh: mostly at him. Then the realization tended to hit them, just before Shizuo did, and shit stopped being funny. He couldn't cry, he couldn't scream, and so he exploded. Last month it was that mugger, the reporter that wouldn't quit pestering, then that weird kid. The medication wasn't working, or it was only working so well. He didn't like to think what that said about him, but he couldn't shy away from it either. If it wasn't all the tumor, then he really was a monster, and he deserved everything that happened to him.

"Evicted?" Izaya cooed into his beer. "That's a shame."

Shizuo aimed a half-hearted kick, then dropped his ankle onto Izaya's shoulder and rudely nudged the side of his face. "Why do I feel like you're scheming something?"

"You have zero faith," said Izaya, smacking his foot aside. "So, what if a meteor just happened to strike the building tonight? I'd hardly be to blame."

Shizuo kept his leg cocked meanigfully.

"Anyway, considering the manner in which you've wrecked the place, Shizu-chan--"

He didn't kick Izaya across the room, but dropped the ankle back onto his shoulder, deliberately taunting. Again, Izaya smacked him aside, then aimed a half-hearted kick of his own.

Things devolved rather quickly from there. Like a flipped switch, from zero to horizontal in less than six seconds, they wound up wrestling across the kitchen floor, half in and half out of beer soaked clothing. A tangle of grinding hips and grabbing hands, friction burns and kicked cabinets that wound into the slowest, nastiest, most tender fuck of Shizuo's life.

He dozed briefly, afterwards, his head pillowed on Izaya's chest, and would've stayed like that if Izaya hadn't kept nudging him.

"Shizu-chan--I'd like to breathe?"

Shizuo rolled off with an ungainly thump. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Izaya sighed ruefully and sat up. He was a mess and he knew it, wounded doggy eyes taking in the ruin of his shirt, the pink bruises between his thighs from Shizuo's hipbones, and the beer drying stickily on floor around them. "Congratulations, Shizu-chan. If you haven't lost your security deposit already--"

Shizuo laughed. "Go shower. I can't have you stinking up my sheets."

"That's sweet of you," he said archly. "I wasn't planning on staying, though."

"Go shower," Shizuo insisted. "I'll give you some clothes to borrow."

Izaya frowned up at him from beneath lowered brows. "I think I preferred your contempt to your pity, Shizu-chan." Then he levered up and stood.

"Fuck off," Shizuo sniffed. "I can't help it if you're pitiful."

He couldn't help being pitiful himself. Couldn't help allowing that one weakness, that one hope, that Izaya didn't hate him as much as he said he did. That they'd reached some kind of stasis. That Shizuo wasn't beyond saving. He was changed. He was changing, and he was above feeling sorry for himself. If Izaya wanted to cut and run, if he couldn't handle when shit got real, that was Izaya's problem, not his.

While Izaya showered, once Shizuo was able to pick himself up off the floor, he set about cleaning the kitchen. Then he popped open a beer, and sat at the table, and listened 'til he heard the door close. Izaya had left. It was for the sake of practicality he supposed, and sooner or later, he'd would come skulking back. Shizuo counted on it, and he'd make it his job to keep an eye on him whenever he did.

Then he'd fuck him like there was no tomorrow, show him how beautiful he looked when he got angry, how weak he was when there was no-one else around to see. He'd go to war for that little shred of honesty, and to hell with whatever anyone else thought.

 

~end~  
 _  
Oh, it's such a perfect day  
I'm glad I spent it with you  
Oh, such a perfect day  
You just keep me hanging on  
You just keep me hanging on  
_


End file.
